


I Will Try to Harmonize

by moonflowers



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, Humor, I hope, Jaskier's Dad is Not Very Nice, Jaskier's family, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, NO ONE KNOWS, POV Alternating, When is this set I hear you ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: When lady luck spits in Jaskier’s face and leads him back to the family home he once fled from, things take a turn he absolutely did not see coming.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 130
Kudos: 789





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with a lot of other people, I’ve only watched the show and read like one book and there’s very little info about Jaskier’s family so… I’ve made up a lot of things. The fake relationship shenanigans probably won’t kick in until about chapter 4, if that’s what you’re here for lol. 
> 
> Title from The Amazing Devil's Not Yet, because I Am Weak.

“I dreamt about you last night.”

Jaskier got about as much of a response to that from Geralt as expected – that is to say, nothing. Not a sausage. But after so many years, he wasn’t about to start letting a trifling thing like that stop him.

“What happened, I hear you ask. Well, nothing as such.” A blessing and a curse. He had had rather more amorous dreams relating to Geralt in the past, and let him know about it too – _do you really have a lovely cherry shaped birthmark on your thigh that I’ve somehow never noticed before, or was it purely my subconscious fabricating such delicious details?_ – but this one had been decidedly less raunchy. Disappointing perhaps, but it saved him the twinge of guilt that accompanied his lusting after his very much not-interested-in-him-like-that friend.

“The sun was shining behind you,” he said, sat up on his bed roll and stretched his shoulder until it popped, brushed some leafy debris from his sleeve, “made you go all sort of… blurred and indistinct. But your hair and eyes all the brighter. It was really rather pretty, come to think of it.”

He did get a reaction that time; a disbelieving snort from where Geralt was already packing his things back onto Roach. Breakfast on the move then, apparently.

“I told you it wasn’t much,” he reluctantly got to his feet, feeling the familiar stiffness of a shoddy night’s sleep on the forest floor, “but still a nice image, I think. Might be able to get a verse or two out of it for something.” Perhaps the piece he was working on about the sirens they’d encountered some months back, or his entirely fabricated tale about a run in with the faery court. It would certainly be wasted on anything involving creatures more unappealing. “What do you think?”

Geralt grunted, the unenthusiastic timbre that Jaskier had come to interpret as ‘if you must.’

“Good,” he fished some papers out of his pack, scrawled down a few choice words to keep the image fresh while Geralt finished readying for the road.

It was a rather nice morning, actually. Not weather wise, gods no; it was somewhat dank and miserable. But the dull light that couldn’t quite push its way through the thick trees surrounding their campsite lent it a sense of concealment, of safety. The morning mist around his ankles ethereal, the pink and white flowers of the late blooming cyclamens amongst the tree roots quite charming. The smell of the fire burnt out and gone cold, horse and crushed grass so familiar after all his time spent on the road, that it had quite replaced the warm sheets, fresh parchment and hot bacon fat smell mornings had used to hold for him.

Not quite the life he’d ever envisioned for himself. But then, when one embarked on one’s travels with as little planning as he had when he’d first left home all those years ago, it was hardly surprising. Besides, he thought fondly as he half-listened to Geralt murmuring his good mornings to Roach, even his own excellent imagination could never have conjured up anything quite like the witcher. A notion that seemed entirely less romantic when Geralt swung himself up onto Roach’s back and moved off towards the edge of the woods without a word of warning, leaving Jaskier scrambling to stuff the papers back into his pack.

“Bastard!”

***

The town of Sadenburg was much as Jaskier remembered it, despite the whispers of discontent throughout the Continent. He’d only visited a handful of times as a boy, when he’d mastered the skill of slipping away from whatever poor soul his parents had tasked with watching him. He’d not been back since those first few thrilling days after he’d left the region of Lettenhove for good, to stock up on travelling essentials before he hit the road proper. Of course, he’d somewhat miscalculated what qualified as essential, but it was long enough ago that he could look on it with a little rose-tinted fondness.

It was still prospering it seemed, cheery and bustling and full of brightly clothed folk going about their business, plump and smiling and generally pleasant. At least three very lovely young ladies nodded to him before they were even halfway across the market square. The stalls were well stocked and the houses in seeming good repair, horses smart and well cared for, children happily rambunctious as they played about their mothers’ skirts. He could hear the singing and laughter, the carrying voices of a travelling performance troupe at the other end of the square, and his chest gave a happy little lurch of interest. The pull of a good story was always too much to resist. He wondered if Geralt would be happy to search out some work alone while he satisfied his curiosity…

But the frivolity of the town did not touch the witcher as it did Jaskier. He was as stone faced as ever, though his lip would curl as he recoiled minutely away from cavorting children and chattering women in his path. Though he wouldn’t show it, Jaskier knew enough to know that well-off towns put him on his guard just as much as the desolate. But Geralt’s sour face did little to affect Jaskier’s mood – there wasn’t much to be done if he’d decided to sulk. Still, he elected not to go off alone to watch the performance and stayed at Geralt’s side instead, began to wonder aloud whether a particular tailor he remembered might still be in business in the hopes of distracting him.

“… and there was the finest hat I’ve ever seen to match it, Geralt, the feather must have been a foot long I swear it.”

He said nothing back of course, but Jaskier fancied his fists were clenched a little less tightly. The only thing that remained to turn Jaskier’s mood less than sunny was the fact that coming back to the town was the closest he’d come to his parents’ home in years. He prayed the news of a banshee or a wyvern might take them south towards the hills and out of Lettenhove altogether, rather than further west towards Olenmarne.

After an afternoon spent enquiring at every inn or meeting place they came across, it soon became clear there was nothing troubling the town of Sadenburg at all. Its people seemed perfectly content, whole and unmolested by any flavour of ill fortune. _Damn._ He sensed Geralt had about given up, and he was wondering whether he’d be able to persuade the witcher into spending the night in town before they took to the road again, when a voice spoke up.

“Excuse me. Witcher?”

Jaskier turned to see Geralt frowning at a girl of not more than fourteen or fifteen, holding a fat grey donkey laden with parcels.

“Hello,” Jaskier said when it became clear Geralt wasn’t going to offer any more encouragement than a grunt of acknowledgment, “can we help you?”

“I’ve heard tell of something that may interest you,” she said, eyes darting between the two of them like she wasn’t sure who to address, “in a town not a half a day from here.”

“We’ve asked all over town,” Geralt said gruffly, “and no one mentioned anything.”

“I guessed as much,” she said, clearly still nervous, but determined, “their misfortune has yet to touch us here, and so no one sees fit to let it bother them.”

“Foolish,” said Geralt.

“I know,” said the girl, a flush of annoyance on her face as she surveyed the still bustling square, “and I know it won’t remain so forever.”

“What is it that’s plaguing this poor town then?” Jaskier asked, interest piqued and ignoring the glare Geralt threw his way for interrupting.

“I don’t know sir,” she said, more at ease now and rubbing the ears of the donkey when it shifted impatiently, “all I know is rumour. But there are whispers of people disappearing. Setting off from their homes in the dark of night and not returning.”

“How many?”

“More than enough for it to look suspect.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier knew what Geralt was thinking. Layers of warped and filtered rumour and no sure sign of bestial interference meant it was likely as not some issue between the townspeople themselves and not the work of some uninvited beastie. But it was a better lead than the big fat nothing they’d gleaned from the rest of the town.

“Where?” Geralt asked the girl.

“Olenmarne,” she said, before startling at a shout a few doors down the street. “My mother,” she said with the briefest of smiles, “I must go. Good luck.” She bobbed a curtsey and hurried off, taking her irritable little donkey and every hope Jaskier had of avoiding his old home with her.

“If we start out now,” Geralt said, looking back towards the road as Roach nipped impatiently at his arm, “we can make it there not long after nightfall.”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said, attempting a tone of boredom that didn’t land quite right, “sounds like a load of bollocks to me. Nobles doing each other in over something petty, no doubt. Probably pointless to pursue.”

Geralt frowned at him, knowing as well as he did that Jaskier turned his nose up at courtly gossip just as rarely as he dismissed the chance of watching the witcher at work. That is to say, never. And the trip to Olenmarne would certainly provide them with one or the other, if what the girl had told them was true.

“You don’t have to accompany me,” Geralt said, though he was still watching Jaskier carefully. “Stay here the night. If there’s nothing in it, I’ll return in the morning.” It wouldn’t be unusual for them to part ways for a while, far from it. It would be easy enough for Jaskier to stay behind. And yet…

“No, I – “ Jaskier bit his lip. The only thing worse than walking with Geralt into the mess his presence would likely cause in Olenmarne was knowing that Geralt was there without him. “I’ll come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how quick the rest will come, I’ve still got WIPs going for another fandom – shout out to all the harringrove people I’ve noticed also writing Witcher fic lol – but we’ll get there.


	2. Chapter 2

Just as Geralt had guessed, it was close to nightfall by the time they neared the town the girl had directed them to. The road was wide and sandy and looked safe enough, sparse cover for bandits and brigands, the few tall trees lining the road covered with clumps of mistletoe. He supposed the road and its purplish wash of dusk might almost count as scenic, if you were the sort of someone to notice it. Which was perhaps why Jaskier’s silence felt so odd. The bard being quiet for any length of time was an event in and of itself, but that along with the grim look on his face growing more noticeable as they approached the town gave Geralt cause for concern. No, concern was too strong a word. Mild curiosity, perhaps. He’d noticed Jaskier attempting to talk his way out coming to Olenmarne too – also odd. He’d not been quite himself since they'd come to Lettenhove, despite having followed Geralt to far worse places with barely a blink. In fact, the worse the situation, the more eager he seemed to be to insert himself into it. He could only guess the idiot had had some sort of romantic encounter there that had ended sourly. Geralt didn’t care to ask. But after a time, the bard’s silence weighed heavy enough that he found himself breaking it.

“You’ve been here before,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

If Jaskier didn’t want to elaborate, then it likely wasn’t important enough for Geralt to press him. Something stupid or salacious or both. It only struck him as odd that, if this truly were an old stomping ground of his, Jaskier hadn’t spent the entire journey singing its praises or regaling him with stories. But Geralt let him be, and made the most of the peace before they entered the town proper.

***

Olenmarne was much like Sadenburg and, at a guess, the other thriving towns strung across Redania like so many pearls. Though night had fallen, and despite the rumoured disappearances, the streets were still full of people. Clean and well-lit, doors thrown open and music spilling from taverns and private homes alike as the townspeople made their laughing way from place to place. Well-off towns like this one made Geralt uneasy. For all their wealth, the people in prosperous towns tended to be less eager to part with their coin for his work than those poorer and desperate, and more likely to attempt to swindle him out of his earnings in smug confidence of their superiority. Something that had eased a little with Jaskier’s ridiculous tales about him spreading their way through the Continent, but they could only do so much. He’d take his chances. He needed the work.

“Excuse me,” he addressed a smiling innkeeper between his flurry of chattering patrons.

“Bless my soul,” the innkeeper said before Geralt could finish, “The White Wolf himself!” Geralt’s irritation must have shown on his face, because the man smiled all the more and patted his arm, and even Geralt’s snarling at the presumption only made him laugh. “Yes that’s right, even our untroubled little town knows all about your heroic exploits.” If Geralt hadn’t left Jaskier outside with Roach, he’d no doubt be wearing the self-satisfied little smirk he always did when his tall tales had replenished their funds.

“You say untroubled,” Geralt said in an attempt to cut through the bullshit, “I’ve heard different.”

“Ah,” the innkeeper leant forward with a sort on conspiratorial glee, “then you’ve heard about our little mystery then, eh?”

“You don’t think it serious?” Geralt asked. As he suspected, but a few more details couldn’t hurt before he gave it up entirely.

“People come and go, you know how it is,” he waved a hand in dismissal, “in fact my business rather relies on it. And no one from _this_ part of town’s gone missing, that’s for certain.”

“Right,” he made to exchange a quick, disbelieving glance with Jaskier as the bard approached to see if he’d made any progress, but he avoided Geralt’s eye. “Is there anyone who might be able to tell us something more useful?”

“You might try the de Lettenhove manor,” said the innkeeper, taking coin from another patron, “just outside the town proper. All the news passes through the family one way or another.”

He felt Jaskier stiffen beside him, the mournful look he’d been wearing ever since they set out sharpened into obvious discomfort. But he said nothing, so Geralt dismissed it as such. He nodded his thanks to the innkeeper, and they left.

***

The manor house was far from the most impressive Geralt had ever seen, but it looked practical, perhaps even inviting. Neat and homely, built of sandy stone and strong wood beams, warm light spilling from its windows. Jaskier was practically hiding behind him as they enquired at the gatehouse. Nothing new perhaps, but odd given the context. Ordinarily, he’d be holding Jaskier back by his collar to stop him running in first, to beg a cup of wine and the willing ear of a pretty maid, but not here. Granted admittance, a lad took Roach off to the stables while Geralt and Jaskier were led inside to be received.

The head of the de Lettenhove household and his wife were waiting on them in the hall. Jaskier still looked inexplicably pained. Now they were away from town and out of the night air his smell became more noticeable too; sickly, heavy discomfort, nerves, enough to make Geralt’s nose itch. It was too late now to ask him what the fuck it was all about without being overheard. Perhaps he’d tumbled a daughter, or the lady of the house herself, though she seemed a fair few years his senior. Not that anything so mundane as that would’ve stopped him. For one grim moment he wondered if Jaskier was expecting him to play bodyguard again; that particular favour had only ever gone to shit.

“Good evening, witcher,” the nobles were all smiles, though the lady’s looked somewhat forced. “I believe you’ve heard about our little mystery.”

“Your people are disappearing without a trace,” Geralt said, “it sounds like something a great deal more serious, don’t you think?” He was done with the smiles and dismissals; not a damned person in the place would speak plainly. All he wanted was to know if there was a monster that needed dispatching or not, and how much coin it would earn him.

“Straight to it then,” de Lettenhove said, smile sharper. “Yes witcher, people have been disappearing.”

“And can you rule out any human involvement?” he pressed, the long and fruitless day starting to weigh on him, the rabbiting of Jaskier’s heart _distracting._ “Neighbourly quarrels turned nasty, that sort of thing?”

“It can be ruled out, I think,” he looked to his wife for confirmation. “The unlucky victims have had no known quarrels with anyone. And the disappearances have happened in a manner… strange enough that we believe it to be some sort of creature, something more nefarious than grudges or politics.”

“Mm.” That they hadn’t put out a fucking contract sooner if they’d assumed it to be a creature all along was idiotic, but he needed the work, and held his tongue. “Very well. What is your price?”

They spent a few moments going over the terms of the contract and settling on the amount of coin he’d receive for is trouble. The man seemed reliable enough. Too smiling and gracious to be wholly sincere, but far better than the snarling aldermen who haggled for a lower price they had no intention of keeping to anyway. Time would tell of course, but for the moment, he was satisfied. They shook hands, and despite Geralt’s insistence he and Jaskier would be comfortable enough staying at the inn back in town, a servant was called to take them to the guest rooms.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he waved aside Geralt’s protests, “far too late for all that now. We’ll see you for breakfast.”

Geralt nodded his thanks and made to follow the servant, wondering if it was too late now to take a quick look around the town and see if he could pick up anything useful before resting.

“Oh and,” for the first time since they’d arrived, de Lettenhove’s attention focused solely on Jaskier, “it’s good to have you home, Julian.”

Jaskier’s mouth tightened, before he gave the smallest of nods. “Yes, father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll stop fucking around and get to the point.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments/kudos so far <3  
> While writing this chapter I decided to scrap some of the – completely irrelevant – family stuff relating to titles etc that I’d been thinking about, because I was massively overthinking it. I’ve altered the previous chapter accordingly, but no need to re-read as it makes literally no difference to the plot lol.

Despite the long stretch of years he’d been away from the house, Jaskier was caught off guard when they were led in the opposite direction he used to take at the top of the stairs, earning himself a funny look from Geralt when he hesitated before following the servant. The corridor they took didn’t lead to Jaskier’s old rooms or any of his siblings’, but to the more ostentatious guest quarters. Those kept exceptionally comfortable and furnished in the latest fashions in case anyone who needed impressing happened to stop by. He wasn’t sure if that was more or less painful than it would’ve been to find himself back among his childhood things. Of course, it was very likely his parents had turfed out all his belongings the moment he’d left. Not that he could blame them for ridding the place of every trace of him – the discontent had run both ways.

The servant who’d shown them to the room – not that Jaskier needed sodding _directions_ in the house he grew up in – was watching him with poorly concealed curiosity. It was a look he’d grown used to, would have perhaps welcomed, under usual circumstances. Many a pleasant evening had started with such a look; wide-eyed interest was always easy to spin into something more. They looked a shade too young to have been working at the house when Jaskier left, had likely heard all manner of exaggerated gossip about him from others, given their staring. Or he very much hoped so, at least. If the circumstances were different, less abysmal, Jaskier probably would been halfway to getting them in his bed in order to cheer himself up. In his old bed chamber too. There was something poetic in that, surely. But the whole situation so far had been so appallingly _un-sensual_ , he didn’t think he could quite muster the enthusiasm. A tragedy in its own right. Although there was just enough humour left in him to appreciate the novelty of walking into a room in Geralt’s company and _him_ being the one stared at.

“You can go,” he said to the servant with a tight smile, “I know where everything is, thank you.”

“Sir,” they came back to themselves then, gave a flustered little bow, and left.

Jaskier turned his back on Geralt in order to look over the room. Their packs had already been unloaded from Roach and brought up. The suite was furnished richly, which he’d expected, but simply, which he had not. Geralt said nothing. Which wasn’t exactly ground-breaking, but Jaskier could feel his eye on him as he flitted about the room.

“A very nice piece,” he said, opening the drawers of a heavy dresser of Temerian make, “perhaps they’ve finally let my dear sister have a say in the décor.”

Silence.

“I can’t see my mother picking out something so classic, that’s for sure.” He picked up an apple from the large bowl of fruit laid out on a low table and took a bite, more for a little something extra to occupy his hands than because he wanted it.

The slightest huff of breath.

“Hmm,” Jaskier ran a critical eye over the pile of cushions on the bed, tried not to drip apple juice on them, “I like the colour, but this fabric rather puts one in mind of a brothel in Nazair, doesn’t it?”

By the time he’d finished the apple and started to list the merits of the rugs underfoot, Geralt finally managed to say something.

“At what point were you planning on telling me we were heading to your family home?”

“Was hoping it wouldn’t come up,” Jaskier said brightly, ran his fingers through the fronds of a fern sitting in an enormous pot that came almost as high as his hip.

“Really, Jaskier?” Geralt wasn’t _properly_ angry with him, that much was clear. Jaskier had seen him properly angry once or twice over their travels, enough to know that this most definitely was not it. Only a little miffed.

“Really,” he said airily, and admired the drape of the curtains. He knew Geralt didn’t like to be kept in the dark when it came to any aspect of a contract, liked to know every detail, which… was fair. And you know, necessary. But really, that the issuers of this particular contract happened to be his parents had precisely no bearing on its outcome. “I don’t expect it’ll make much difference in the end, do you?” 

Geralt ignored him. “Why didn’t you say anything you idiot?”

“Look, I – “ Jaskier was saved from answering by a brown and white spaniel skittering in, tail wagging and sniffing at their boots.

“Hello beautiful,” Jaskier took the escape the blessed interruption provided him with and bent to rub at the dog’s ears. She seemed a bit of a baby still, wriggly and sweet and smelling delightfully puppyish. She whined happily at the attention and licked at his hands, giving Jaskier an unexpected pang of sadness over a similar dog he’d had to leave behind when he’d gone.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, exasperation bordering on something a little more sharp now, _“why?”_ Jaskier didn’t answer in favour of scratching softly at the little dog’s belly. When Geralt spoke again, it was with a fraction less ire. “You should have stayed behind, if you didn’t want to come here.”

Jaskier sighed. “I didn’t want to come here, no. But the thought of _you_ being here without _me_ was somehow worse.”

“… that makes no sense.”

“Fine, look – my family had plans for me that I simply couldn’t go along with,” he said. “They sent me to school in the hopes of making things better, but to mutual disappointment, when I returned things were worse. After that I left in a manner that made it clear I didn’t plan on seeing them again,” he made himself look up from the dog. “But this is work, Geralt. A contract. Coin. I’ll observe, assist if I can and write about it after, same as any other. I’ll be alright.”

He wasn’t sure what made him add that final sentiment – he doubted Geralt would be much bothered by Jaskier’s family dramatics, unless they interfered with his work. He only grunted in reply, but seemed to accept his answer for the time being.

“You never told me you were nobility.”

“I don’t think you ever asked,” he stood, and the dog immediately took off away down the stairs again. “And I honestly I thought I had mentioned it in some capacity, over the last decade. If not, well… it hardly seemed important, day to day.” That part was oddly less difficult to talk about than the specifics of his family. Less personal, and more like the distant, dry old histories and family trees he’d been made to study as a boy.

“I thought you’d fucked one of them and made a mess of things,” he said gruffly, “as usual.”

That had Jaskier laughing hard enough it almost brought a tear to his eye. Geralt’s mouth twitched before he set about unpacking his witchery things, and Jaskier felt a little less dreadful.

***

He lay awake that night, feeling fucking _weird,_ watching moonlight cross the ceiling of his estranged parents’ guest bed chambers. Not something he’d been expecting by any account, but… he supposed things could be worse than a rather nice mattress with a side of intense awkwardness. He’d picked monster guts off his clothes too many times to think otherwise. Didn’t make him feel any better about the whole situation though. There was apple skin caught in his teeth, and an odd smell coming from what he was beginning to suspect was the fern.

The quarters for guests were made up of two separate rooms – each decorated by his sister’s fair hand in a style that sat somewhere between oceanside villa and Nazair brothel – with a washroom of sorts accessible to both. Which meant he was sleeping alone. Childish as it sounded, he wished there wasn’t a wall separating him from Geralt; he’d gotten used to rather closer quarters. Though things still weren’t sitting quite right between them thanks to Jaskier’s – perfectly acceptable – omissions about his heritage, his proximity was calming. In the same way he’d felt at peace sharing barns with oxen at lower points during his travels, their steady breathing and gentle, hulking presence, sleeping near Geralt made him feel a particular kind of safe. He’d told the witcher as much, and more than once. Geralt’s answer had been that cows didn’t carry swords. He would be asleep no doubt, or meditating at the very least, and up early to get to work tomorrow. All the same, Jaskier couldn’t help but picture him lying in his separate room but looking up at the same ceiling, and wondering whether he missed Jaskier’s fidgeting as much as Jaskier missed his even breaths, the quiet weight of him.

Tomorrow would certainly prove interesting. He hadn’t seen his parents in a decade at least, possibly a good deal longer, and showing up out of the blue with a witcher in tow was… actually, it was probably about what they would have expected of him. Now he’d lived a little, he was curious as to whether they really were as terrible as he’d thought them as a child. The fact that neither of them had rushed to greet him with open arms the moment they’d caught sight of him wasn’t promising in that regard, but then, he’d been equally distant. He’d always been eager to blame them for every petty argument they’d ever struck up – his father more so than his mother – but he couldn’t help but foolishly wonder how much had really been their fault, and how much had been his impulsive youthfulness and a thick head full of old poetry. Most of the things that had upset him in his life he could make something out of; a ballad about betrayal or a poem about a broken heart, but this was different. He’d never written anything about his family, didn’t think he ever would either. It was too close to home, quite literally. Which made this whole ordeal all the more awful – it was dreadfully uninspiring as far as his work was concerned. Perhaps the addition of the White Wolf would make it something worth writing about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me inserting my dog into fanfics. Sorry for the filler, I’ll finally make good on that quality fake relationship content next chapter.
> 
> Shoutout to my spellcheck for every time it wanted to change Jaskier to Jackie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So turns out being at home with no responsibilities gets me to write fic faster.

“I won’t say any more on it, witcher,” the woman said as she hefted another tray of loaves from the oven, red-faced and floury handed, “that’s all I know.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said through his teeth, reminded himself it would be bad for business to start shouting at deliberately unhelpful women in the streets. She’d given him little to nothing regarding the disappearances. “Do you know of anyone who might have more information?”

She looked dubious but eager to be rid of him, and pointed him in the direction of the joiner.

The afternoon had proved to be nothing but frustrating so far, but he was glad of the work to keep his thoughts from straying back to Jaskier. Julian. The Viscount de Lettenhove, apparently. _Fuck_. It seemed painfully obvious, in hindsight. The signs that the bard was of noble stock were there, Geralt had just never chosen to pay them any mind. He was well spoken. His taste for finery, as far as food as fashion went. His knowledge of all the regions throughout the Continent, their history and the customs of their nobility. Though all of which could be credited to any number of bards, obtained through training in the liberal arts at any half decent school, or picked up travelling through various courts. As far as Jaskier went, it could all have easily been passed off as just… bardic flair. He’d begged off accompanying Geralt into town – which had happened exactly _never_ before; sticking his nose into other people’s business was practically a hobby of his – claiming there would be too many familiar faces he didn’t necessarily wish to encounter. Odd but understandable. It hadn’t made him feel any better about leaving behind a sulking Jaskier in the manor’s gardens.

_“Shit.”_

No one answered his knock at the joiner’s door, so he resisted the urge to kick it in out of sheer annoyance and moved on. No one had given him anything useful so far. The townspeople all gave the impression of knowing something, but were unwilling to talk about it, as though they might be sullied by the very suggestion they were connected to something so common as being murdered. This was why he didn't fucking _like_ the rich towns.

When reprimanding Jaskier for not bothering to tell him they were headed to his family home, Geralt had argued it was because he needed to know any detail he could before taking on a contract. Which was true, he still didn't understand why the idiot hadn't come out with it right away, when it was normally a task to get him to shut up. But also because… he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Just that having to find out about such an integral part of Jaskier’s life in such a manner had left him feeling… unpleasant. An odd sort of guilt he couldn’t quite place, and a vague kind of possessiveness, as though it had been his right to know and was frustrated because he _hadn’t._ But then, the bard had been right – he’d never asked.

“Hello, love.”

He halted in his pissed off striding back across town to glare down at the old woman in his path. She must not have been able to read the leave-me-the-fuck-alone look on his face, because instead of moving out of his way, she put her hand on his arm and asked if he was lost.

“No.”

She hummed, and gave him a brief look up and down. “So, this is the famous White Wolf of Rivia.”

He ground his teeth to keep in a growl of aggravation. “What gave me away?”

“That charming demeanour, of course,” she hooted with laughter and patted his arm, blithely ignoring the look he gave her for it. He was beginning to wonder if the old crone was somehow related to Jaskier too; she refused to acknowledge his carefully laid out boundaries just as cheerfully. “Now, let’s be serious a moment here, witcher. You’ll be looking into the disappearances, yes?”

“I am,” he said, and in his frustration let slip, “I don’t seem to be getting very far.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much either,” she said with a sigh. “Only that a friend of mine’s sister lost her boy. I don’t know much as I didn’t like to ask in her grief, but she did let slip there was dirt and old bones left behind in his bed, which struck me as mighty odd.”

“Grave dirt?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Hm.”

“Of course, no one talks about it because they don’t want to be the subject of rumour. Silly, puffed up pigeons, the lot of them,” she shook her head. “But I suggest you go and speak to her, over on the west side of town. Might be of some help.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, slightly taken aback that the old woman might have actually been of more use than the rest of the town put together.

She waved away his stilted thanks, before watching him a moment with narrowed eyes. “You came into town last night with the Pankratz boy, didn’t you?”

He assumed she must have meant Jaskier. “Yes.”

“Hm.” She didn’t say anything further, just swatted him on the arm once more before trundling off. “Well, good luck, witcher.” Whether she meant it in regards to the disappearances or to Jaskier, he was unsure.

He watched her hobble away between the buildings for a moment, before looking to the sky and noting that evening was fast drawing in. He’d gotten the impression he would be expected to be present at the evening meal, so he turned on his heel and set off back to the manor. The woman and her missing son would have to wait until tomorrow.

***

When he returned to the rooms, he found Jaskier had had a bath drawn in the washroom. He looked fidgety, sleeves pushed up and smile tight. He smelt a little on edge too, though that could have been the hundreds of bath oils he had sitting to the side, the warring scents making Geralt want to cover his nose.

“We didn’t have a chance to wash up properly last night after… everything,” Jaskier said, fingers tapping on the rim of the tub, “and we’d been on the road for days before that, so I thought you might like – “

Geralt nodded to save him his breath. He was dusty and sun-drowsy and not much further along with the disappearances. And… well, he liked baths.

“Oh. Good.”

“That one,” he pointed to the rosemary oil before Jaskier made the decision for him and upended half the vials into the water. It was one the bard often carried with him, familiar, deep and fresh rather than the too-sweet scents that made his nose itch.

“Right you are,” Jaskier said, noticeably more at ease, as he set about helping Geralt get undressed. Not that there was really any need; he hadn’t bothered with full armour for his attempts at prying information out of the tight-lipped locals, but things seemed to sit right between them for the first time since arriving, and he wasn’t about to upset that. Jaskier hummed to himself as he unfastened a buckle at Geralt’s shoulder. He smelt of bay leaves and honey, had clearly already had a bath of his own. Geralt breathed in a little deeper.

It wasn’t until he was settled in the hot water, Jaskier fussing about behind him, that he noticed the dog was back. He frowned at it, wondered how long it had been sitting there, but it only wagged its tail and settled more comfortably on the floor.

“One of the servants told me her name's Maebel,” Jaskier said when he noticed Geralt’s staring, “she’s a sweet thing.” She looked up at the mention of her name, but stayed put.

“Hm.”

“I don’t know how you’ve gotten so grotty,” Jaskier said as he knelt behind him, slipping the leather tie out of his hair, “all you’ve done is stroll around Olenmarne. I take it you didn’t start a brawl, or wrestle any of the locals or anything of that sort?”

“No.”

He made a small, unimpressed noise. “Not as bad as selkiemore guts, I suppose.”

Jaskier kept talking; little things about his day, or a song he was working on or a dream he’d had or something he’d eaten, but it was the sort of talking he didn’t expect Geralt to reply to. He just listened, and felt what little tension he was carrying slip further out of his grasp. The water was just the right side of too hot, the familiar smell of the bath oils and of Jaskier helping him relax, letting the past week’s dirt and sweat from the road be washed away. It was nice. Jaskier’s hands sunk into his wet hair to work the grit out, and he pressed up into the touch. It was just something Jaskier did for him, a small, comforting part of the roughly sketched out routine they fell into when they found themselves somewhere with a bath. An odd intimacy they’d grown used to, no less enjoyable for its frequency.

He was unwound by the gentle familiarity of Jaskier’s hands on him to the extent that he let a low groan rumble through his chest, which also happened to be the exact moment someone let themselves into the washroom without knocking. Geralt had been aware of someone moving around in the bedroom next door, but assumed it was a servant taking the chance to tidy up after them while they were in the washroom, and paid it no mind. Admittedly, he’d also been distracted.

“Julian, are you still – oh!” It was a young woman with yellow hair and the same nose as Jaskier, dressed frothily in lilac and hand clutched to her chest. The little dog sprung up at the commotion and jumped up at her skirts in excitement. “I’m so sorry,” she said, though she didn’t look it, biting back a squeal of a laugh but making no move to leave, “I thought only my brother was in here.”

Jaskier sighed and shifted slightly, but his hand stayed bunched in Geralt’s hair. “Well, as you can see it's not," he said tartly, "so would you be so kind as to bugger off.”

She did no such thing, instead scooped up the dog with surprising strength and rolled her eyes. “No need to be so snotty, Julian, I just wanted to say hello – “ she broke off, eyeing Jaskier’s wet fingers curled at the back of Geralt’s neck, before smiling at them with slightly unnerving delight. “Oh, I didn’t realise you two were _together!”_

Geralt ignored it. He’d heard whispers of it before in taverns and the like, but as it was complete bollocks he treated it as such.

“No, Hanna, we – “

“Of course I understand why you didn’t say anything, what with father being father,” she kissed the dog on the nose, “but I really think you should.”

“Hanna – “

“Or tell mother at least, so she can work on him,” she said. “Oh, Lili will be _mad_ with jealousy, she always said she’d settle first.”

Geralt still said nothing, perplexed by the odd turn things had taken and also unable to get a word in, looking between the two siblings with growing irritation.

“Hanna, please stop clucking and listen to me for a moment,” Jaskier said, a touch desperately.

“It is rather romantic though, the two of you out on the road together, falling in love…”

“Melitele save my delectable arse,” Jaskier moved his hands from Geralt’s hair so he could stand, wiped the oil on his trousers. “Must you be such an unfailing _idiot_ , dear sister?”

“I’ll tell father for you,” she said with a decisive nod.

“Oh good grief. Hanna, _no,”_ Jaskier said firmly.

“No need to worry,” she said twirling with the dog still in her arms, “it can be my welcome home present for you.”

“Hanna – “

“I’ll leave you to finish up,” she said, with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look into Geralt’s bathwater. “See you at supper!”

Then she was gone, leaving Jaskier staring wide-eyed at the door as though he’d been struck, and Geralt wondering if the entire Pankratz family was just as insufferable as each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s ready to take a trip to trope town


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier’s dad is kind of a dick in this chapter and probably the next few afterwards. I don't think it's enough to warrant a warning in the tags (and spoilers, it does get better) but it's enough that I wanted to give you a heads up. 
> 
> Also thanks for the kudos/comments on the last chapter, I usually like to reply but that seems to have gone out the window atm, apologies.

“You have a sister.”

Jaskier stopped trying to push his hair into a more pleasing style – his bad night’s sleep had wrought havoc with it – to look briefly at Geralt. “I have two, actually. And a brother."

“Hm.”

Geralt was refusing to play along with Hanna’s assumption about the two of them. They’d had quite the row about it last night after his sister had fluttered off, to the extent that neither of them had gone down for the evening meal, Jaskier instead sending for a tray once he’d calmed down enough to do so. Well. When he said they’d fought about it, what he actually meant was that Geralt had been an unrelenting _arse_ and mostly just sat and sighed and thrown in the occasional ‘no’ while Jaskier had spent the better part of an hour frantically outlining why pretending they were in fact very much in love, or at the very least enthusiastically fucking, for the rest of their stay would be beneficial.

And the reason was this. It would be far less taxing for him to let his family think whatever they wanted for the next few days while they – while _Geralt_ – took care of whatever needed to be taken care of. Jaskier would spend as little time as possible in their company, the creature would be thwarted, and the two of them would be back on the road before his father could give him so much as a disappointed glance. Which was preferable to the alternative of explaining that no, Hanna was in fact a blithering idiot whose only talent was blindly grasping at the wrong end of the sodding stick, and he was very much not shacked up with a selectively mute and appallingly handsome witcher. But no, Geralt had steadfastly refused to do his very best friend one tiny little favour. So he was going to have to exchange words, _actual_ words and probably eye contact, and come within more than ten feet of his parents to tell them it was all bollocks. And he honestly couldn’t say which part of the whole spectacle would earn his the most ire from his dear father. Wonderful. Absolutely bloody spectacular.

“Right then,” he deemed himself to look about as ready as he was ever going to under the circumstances, “breakfast.”

“Don’t look so miserable,” Geralt said as they left the room, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” he said, aghast, “did you not listen to a _single word_ I said last night?”

“You could have tried harder to correct her,” Geralt said, far too relaxed about the whole sorry mess in his opinion, as though it were little more than a slightly boring inconvenience, “if it bothered you so much.”

The idea of it really didn’t bother him, which was very much part of the problem. “Don’t get shirty with me mister, its not like you did anything either,” he said hotly, “you could have jumped to my rescue at any time, you know.” They were going over the same little arguments Jaskier had already laid out the night before, which would get them exactly nowhere. He sighed. “Look, I’ll set them straight, alright?” he said when they were just outside the dining hall.

Geralt hesitated a moment, watching him with a slight frown, considering. Then he nodded, and they went in.

“Good morning father,” Jaskier said, a great deal more sunnily than he felt, “mother.” He inclined his head briefly to each of them. “I know you met formally last night, but allow me to informally introduce my – “ he shot Geralt a fleeting look as he stumbled over the words, “my good friend, Geralt of Rivia.”

It was his mother who spoke. “It is an honour to have you in our home, witcher.”

Geralt merely nodded.

“My brother Michal,” Jaskier said, gesturing to where his siblings sat at the table, “and my sisters Liliana and Hanna.”

“Hello again,” Hanna beamed at them and gave Geralt a little wave with honey-smeared fingers. It made something in Jaskier clench with the smallest twist of discomfort. His youngest sister might be the silliest girl he’d ever met, but she was good-hearted, and his quarrel had never been with the three of them.

“I’m glad to see you, Julian,” said Michal, with the same simple earnestness he’d always had, and Jaskier suddenly realised he’d missed.

“Yes, well,” he sat at the table, vaguely registering Geralt doing the same at his side, “you too.”

“I must admit Julian,” his father said once they’d filled their plates, “this isn’t quite how I pictured you returning to us.”

“Oh?” Jaskier said gamely, picking apart a piece of crumbling cheese and wishing he was the sort of person who could gracefully let his father’s goading go rather than pushing him for more, “and how exactly did you picture it, father?”

“If I might be frank,” his father said, “penniless and hopeless, disgraced and begging to be let back into this family.”

Jaskier’s breath caught. He hadn’t been expecting him to be quite so… to the point. As he’d avoided mentioning Geralt, he clearly didn’t want to piss the witcher off directly while he was taking care of their creature problem. But that in turn meant that every painfully blunt word was focused solely on Jaskier, and he suddenly felt like he was ten again, frozen under his father’s sharp words and disappointed ire. _Damn._ He couldn’t seem to find his tongue, eyes trained on the grain of the tabletop.

Then Geralt was there, pressed right up close to his side, shoulder to hip to thigh, still smelling faintly of sleep and rosemary oil, and looking a him expectantly. Jaskier blinked at him in question, didn’t follow quite what he was getting at until Geralt gave the softest huff of impatience and settled his arm pointedly around Jaskier’s waist. And _oh,_ he was actually going to go through with it. For him, because he was upset. Oh...

The weight of his arm, of his fingers light on Jaskier’s hip, gave him the fortitude to lift his head. To flash his father a politely cutting smile. “Well, it seems you were wrong father. I can assure you I am very much none of the above.”

There was a moment when the table fell silent as Jaskier met his father’s eye, the silence heavy over them all. But he could feel Geralt all solid and reassuring next to him – yes Geralt, exactly like those damned cows he’d compared him to time and again, he wasn’t taking it back it was a sincere compliment – and it struck him how relieved he was not to be back under that roof alone.

“I’m glad to hear it,” his mother said, though it earned her a visible twitch of annoyance from his father, “now, witcher. I believe you hail from Rivia, correct?”

He’d never been more grateful to his thrice blessed mother than in that moment, as she continued to ask a stream of politely interested questions despite the coldness emanating from his father’s end of the table. Or at least until she asked one question in particular. “And how long have you two been, ah,” she paused, clearly searching for a delicate way to phrase it, “intimate?”

He felt Geralt choke on his own breath next to him, and had to smother a laugh before he ruined the whole pretence. “I don’t know the exact date,” he managed, curling a finger through Geralt’s hair for effect. The rolling grumble of exasperation he felt through Geralt’s chest did little to assuage his amusement. “I met Geralt not long after I – “ _left this place,_ “turned eighteen. And we’ve travelled together intermittently ever since. Though this,” he flicked a finger loosely between the two of them, “is fairly recent.”

_More recent than you could guess._

Things continued with relative ease for a time, if you could call the tension rolling off his father such, until another potential issue occurred to Jaskier. He was very much aware of how he appeared when he was besotted with someone, and how he was currently behaving was very much _not it._ And having witnessed Jaskier when he’d first discovered romance in the flush of his youth and fallen in love with someone new every other week, his family would be all too aware of it to not notice the signs. Or lack thereof. He gathered up his resolve along with a small piece of bread from his plate, and held it up to Geralt.

Who looked about as offended as he expected, but still. Insulting.

“No,” he said flatly, low enough for only Jaskier to hear.

“We have to _commit,_ Geralt,” Jaskier said between his teeth. “Fucking _please,_ we’ve gone this far – “

And Geralt opened his mouth. Just like that. Let a slightly awed Jaskier pop the piece of bread between his lips. And _oh,_ that was… really quite sexy.

He was brought back to himself by the sound of his sisters giggling, and looked over in time to see them smothering their smiles and his brother rolling his eyes. His parents exchanged a pained little look he couldn’t quite read.

They largely left him alone for the rest of the morning meal. His mother quiet but hiding a smile behind her tea, his father clearly less than pleased but hiding it behind a straight face. Convinced that his son was indeed courting the witcher, he wouldn’t openly disparage him and risk Geralt’s displeasure and him quitting the contract before it was taken care of. Things with him were far from settled though, and Jaskier knew well enough his father would pick another moment to have it out with him, without Geralt present. His siblings were ribbing each other just as loud and good-natured as the day he left. Liliana was brave enough to ask if the songs about Geralt were true. They’d obviously heard the tales but weren’t aware Jaskier was the one who’d written them, which… was an issue for another day. Geralt, with surprising diplomacy, answered that some were exaggerated for entertainment, but parts were true enough. Jaskier felt himself relax just a little further into his side in relief, felt Geralt’s hair on his cheek. That the witcher hadn’t openly belittled his songs for once and that he’d agreed to playact his way through this mess with him, although perhaps unwillingly, was enough to put him at ease for the time being. Though if the short time they'd spent pretending so far was any sort of measure, the whole charade was going to prove equal parts wonderful and odious. It was dangerous, to let himself blur the already thin line marking what they were to each other.

***

Geralt didn’t say a word about it afterwards, and for once, Jaskier was inclined to let it stay that way. But he did choose to accompany the witcher into town while he went about doing… whatever is was he had to do to dig up more about the disappearances. The threat of bumping into any old flames or their new spouses felt like a lesser evil compared to staying at the manor after their performance at breakfast time.

They headed to the western edges of Olenmarne, where the houses looked newer and larger than the more humble homes to the south and in the heart of the town. Geralt spent a while talking to a woman he seemed to have sought out with intent, perhaps due to a lead he’d gotten the day before. Jaskier felt a twinge of annoyance at himself for not enquiring how the witcher had fared the day before; after the bath, Hanna’s interruption, and everything left in its wake, the whole thing had been quite pushed from his mind. She in turn directed them to a house around the corner, where a mother of three had gone missing in the same, mysterious manner.

Though Jaskier was still mostly distracted by the events of the morning – his mother’s behaviour in particular – he couldn’t help but feel discomfort settling on his shoulders, a fluttering of compassion in his belly. He’d known these people after all; or recognised their faces, or had a vague recollection of their names, or had played with their children when he was a boy. A splinter of guilt which only intensified when he quite literally ran into a familiar face.

“Damian!”

His cousin blinked back at him for a moment before his face creased into a smile. “Julian. You’re back.”

“I am.” They pulled each other into a quick but fierce hug. He’d always found it easy to flit from place to place, changing friends with the wind, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t truly happy when he crossed paths with certain people again.

“I’d heard tell of it, but wasn’t sure if I really believed it,” Damian’s attention settled on Geralt with the cautious curiosity of someone who’d never encountered a witcher before. He barely gave Damian a glance, bored already, impatient to move on to the next house. “I’d also heard tell you’d brought a witcher with you. But I wasn’t sure I quite believed that either.”

“Well here we are,” Jaskier smiled, but his cousin’s face had slipped into a more baleful expression, tired and harried. “What is it?”

“You’ve been away so long,” he started, “and I presume the fact that the two of you are here at all means you know this already, but people have been disappearing, Julian. Far enough apart and with such irregularity that many refuse to give it the level of concern it deserves, but… there’s no denying it.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, noting that Geralt was paying them more attention now they were discussing the disappearances, “yes, that’s why we’re here.”

“I always knew that it would take something dire to bring you back, after the dramatic exit you made,” he rolled his eyes fondly, but his face darkened again quickly. “Tens of people haven gone missing, Julian. People I’ve known all my life, I – you remember a friend of mine, Adam?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, already knowing where it was going.

“He’s gone,” Damian said quietly. “A month ago now.”

“Gods. I’m so sorry.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“Oh bugger,” Jaskier once again felt that sad little squirm over all the people he’d left behind, and what had befallen them in his absence. “I sucked him off once after too much ale at the harvest festival.”

“Wow,” Damian screwed up his nose, “what a golden memory of my friend I can treasure, _you arse.”_

“Sorry,” Jaskier said, a touch guiltily, “I mean it Damian, really. I never thought I’d come back here at all, and to come back to be greeted with something like this…”

Damian gripped his shoulder briefly. “I know. Just get rid of whatever it is,” he looked to Geralt. “Please.”

He said his goodbyes, and Jaskier was left a lot more shaken by it all than he’d expected. But he wasn’t aware he was showing it so obviously until Geralt cleared his throat.

“What? Sorry,” he dredged up a smile, “we can go on to the next house now, if you like.”

But Geralt only frowned all the deeper. “Would you… prefer to go back to the manor?”

“Whatever for?”

“You’re upset.”

“No, I’m…” he sighed. “Yes, I am. But it’s alright. I want to help.”

Ordinarily, he felt as though Geralt would have scoffed at that, in his subtle Geralt-y way, but this time he only nodded, and they set off to the next house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be honest lads, the monster of the week has no importance to the plot and is not why any of us are here, and yet I still keep adding to it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this fic would end up being about 10k overall. I thought wrong.

Geralt was frustrated with himself for not noticing it sooner. But then, he’d had other things on his mind since they’d come to this place, most if not all stemming from Jaskier in one way or another. Which was no excuse for him to lapse in his work – the bard had provided ample and thorough distraction from the tasks at hand over the years, in a variety of ways each more ridiculous than the next – but it was almost certainly the reason why something so obvious had slipped through his fingers. It had to stop, if he were to get the job done. He thanked the woman he’d been speaking to for her time and the information she’d given, and at her terse nod, took his leave.

Surprisingly, he found Jaskier not far from where he’d left him; in the street outside the house, draped against a wall as he waited for Geralt to finish questioning the family inside. He was all smiles, crudely and obviously flirting with a passing woman pushing a handcart displaying various lengths and colours of ribbon. She was all pleased dimpled laughter, eyes bright as she noticed Jaskier’s eye dropping to her ample chest. There was a moment where Geralt was inexplicably irritated by the display, which wasn’t entirely new; the bard’s terrible tendency to bat his eyes at anything with a pulse had hindered his progress and left him feeling maddened more than once. But this time he felt a sharper twist of aggravation than expected. His earlier resolve to not allow himself to be distracted from his work dissipated as he drew closer. His thoughts alighted on the tedious act they were putting on for Jaskier’s family’s sake, and saw no reason why he shouldn’t give him exactly what he’d asked for.

“There you are,” he smiled sweet and sharp, an expression that didn’t sit comfortably on his face at all, and pressed himself as close to Jaskier as he could manage, “I wondered where you'd gotten to.”

“Um, Geralt?” Jaskier tensed at the unexpected proximity, turned his head to look at Geralt in confusion. “You’re… close.”

“Mm,” Geralt practically purred, nose in Jaskier’s hair and watching the ribbon seller’s eyes widen. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“No, no, I mean yes,” Jaskier stumbled over his words and shot the woman a smile to cover his surprise. His heart had quickened.

“Are you done here?” Geralt asked, reached down in a movement that purposely drew the lady’s eye to place a hand firmly on Jaskier’s hip, fingertips splayed to rest on his arse. If the bard would continue to insist they play out this foolish game, then Geralt would win it.

“Oh good grief,” he heard Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath, followed by nervous laughter, “yes, yes of course. Lovely to meet you my dear,” he said to the woman, managed a jerky half bow, “but I’m afraid I really must be going.”

“Of course,” she gave him a bemused smile, along with a length of blue ribbon, “thank you for the chat.” She winked, and moved her cart on.

“Let’s go,” Geralt stepped neatly away as soon as she was gone, removing his hand from Jaskier’s backside to pat him hard on the shoulder.

“Um, quick question, if I may” Jaskier said, affronted as he tripped to catch up with him, “what the ever-loving _fuck_ was that?”

“If you want to keep up this idiotic act in front of your family, it would hardly help if word got back to them you were all but groping women in the centre of town,” Geralt said flatly.

“Ah,” Jaskier said, wilting a little, “I suppose that makes sense. Though given the things they’ve witnessed, I doubt they’d be terribly surprised.”

Geralt thought he was probably right. “Also,” he said, “it was… amusing.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Wait, did I heard that correctly? You did it because you thought it’d be _funny?_ Don’t tell me after all these years you’ve finally discovered your sense of humour, my dear witcher.”

Geralt only hummed, and kept walking.

“You absolute _bastard,”_ Jaskier said, although he sounded delighted, clapped Geralt on the arm.

"Mm."

“What did Emelda have to say anyway?” he said, more soberly. “Are we any closer to getting this thing sorted?”

“To some extent,” Geralt handed a coin to a stallholder they happened past, paused briefly to grab two apples. He threw one to Jaskier, and kept the other for Roach. “What she said made me realise something I should have seen earlier. All the disappearances are happening within the same area.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier ran a nail over the waxy green skin of the apple.

“What I said,” Geralt frowned. “It’s localised. Every person has gone missing from somewhere along these few streets. All in the same western section of the town, and all from homes built relatively recently. The rest of the town appears unaffected.”

“Right…" His shoulders dropped fractionally; it must have been a comfort to know that the whole of Olenmarne, of Lettenhove in its entirety, was not at risk from this same evil, at least. The bard might have had some love lost for the place, but it was apparent he didn't want the whole region decimated. "And what does that mean, exactly?”

“I can’t say for certain yet,” Geralt said, “but I think I know what the cause could be.”

***

“You’re getting spoiled,” Geralt said as he brushed Roach’s coat down. When he and Jaskier had gotten back to the manor, he’d gone straight to the stables to see to her, and to give her the apple. It was grander accommodation than she was used to; despite his best efforts to provide for her as well as he could, the stables at roadside inns and disreputable taverns could only do so much. “But the rest seems to be doing you good.” She sniffed at his hand, breath apple-sweet.

“Yes, me as well,” he admitted. She seemed to be enjoying her stay. She’d been less argumentative the past few days, and her coat was looking brighter, well fed and free of the dust of the road. She would be restless again soon, like her master. But for now, she seemed the picture of contentment.

Outside, drifting over from the courtyard garden, he could hear Jaskier singing. He was out of Geralt’s line of sight, but the sound carried easily. Not that he was listening to the words particularly; he habitually paid them little attention as it was. But the lazy strumming and low murmur of his voice figuring out lyrics was the background noise to Geralt’s existence, by this point. And despite himself, it was a comfort.

He noticed the unimpressed look the horse was giving him as he paused in his task. “Shut up, Roach.”

She only shook her head with a loud snort, and continued to nose through the hay in front of her.

Time slipped away, as much as he was able to let it, as he breathed in the sweet, dusty smell of Roach’s coat and the sharpness of spring flowers, listened to the gentle chords settle over the grounds. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel Jaskier’s humming in his chest. He didn’t smile. Roach would only judge him for it. It was almost dark, dusk fading the sky to a greyish purple, when he heard a set of footsteps approach where Jaskier was sitting.

“Must you play that infernal instrument?” Jaskier’s mother said with a sigh when she came to a stop.

“It’s how I make my living mother, whether you approve of it or otherwise,” said Jaskier tartly, “so in short, yes.”

Geralt still couldn’t see them from inside the stables; they were a short distance away and hidden within the walled garden. But their voices carried just as easily as Jaskier’s had when he’d been singing. Whether he wanted to listen or not was another matter. But he’d been there first to see to Roach, it was hardly his business if they chose to have a conversation within his earshot. He wouldn’t cut short the time he owed his horse because of it.

“It’s not fit for men of title to play such an instrument with such dedication,” she said, the reprimand sounding tired and half-hearted, like it was one she’d given more times than she cared to count.

“Of all the old arguments you could pick for us to suffer through again mother, this one is by far the most tedious,” said Jaskier lightly, “why not try my poor behaviour at court, or my unfortunate habit of bedding married ladies.”

“Well,” she said smartly, “I shouldn’t have to worry about that one anymore, should I?”

A moment of silence, where perhaps Jaskier had realised he’d slipped up, his lack of concern at the suggestion of being unfaithful giving the ruse away. Geralt realised he was holding himself still to listen better.

“Quite right,” Jaskier recovered, and the tension in Geralt’s shoulders eased slightly. Not that he much cared either way if the ridiculous act was discovered. If it were, perhaps Jaskier would be eager to leave, and they might fulfil the contract and leave the whole mess behind with a degree more haste. “Though I must admit, I’m surprised neither of you have given me a dressing down for that either.”

Jaskier’s mother hummed in agreement. “The witcher is… not ideal.”

Jaskier snorted, and Geralt readied himself to hear a list of the faults he had no control over, the same things he’d heard about himself whispered and shouted alike through every corner of the Continent. The discomfort of hearing his own shortcomings from people he’d never met had dulled considerably over the decades, but it still wasn’t exactly something he sought out.

“Of course,” she continued, “it means a blood heir is out of the question – “

Jaskier coughed. “You have Michal for that. Or the girls.”

“I’m aware,” she said dryly. “Neither is he of noble stock, nowhere near it. And our family would gain very little politically or financially through your union. Though his kind have become more respected by the people over the past few years, I grant you. You could do worse. There was a time I worried you’d pick somebody awful purely to spite us all.”

“I considered it.”

“That said, he certainly isn’t what we wanted for you.”

Jaskier chose to ignore a majority of the points his mother had laid out. It made Geralt question how often he’d heard them all before. “I can’t help it that I fell arse over teakettle for a witcher, mother.”

She tutted. “Julian.”

“He might be a cantankerous old bastard, but I also happen to think he’s the best man I’ve ever met, so.” He sniffed.

It wasn’t even the nicest thing Jaskier had ever said about him. He lavished praise upon him and his deeds in his songs of course, though that was greatly exaggerated, and Geralt usually felt he was listening to a telling of someone else’s life when he was unfortunate enough to have to listen in. But even on a day where he’d done nothing close to being called heroic, Jaskier would litter a dozen little undeserved compliments on him. For a well-made fire or a particularly fat rabbit for their dinner, the colour of his hair or securing an acceptable room at an inn. And yet hearing him say something like that so sincerely gave him pause. Likely because a small part of him, very small yet unignorable, still nursed the idea that it was all an act he put on in Geralt’s company, and he secretly thought of him with as much derision as everybody else. Of course it easily still could be, given the circumstances, but... He wasn’t sure when that had become something he cared about.

“Oh dear,” his mother sighed. “You really do love him don’t you.”

“No need to sound so upset about it.”

It was a part of the absurd playacting, of course it was. But all the same hearing Jaskier say it… Part of Geralt would have expected himself to either cringe away from or be irritated by the notion, and another part would have imagined he’d feel nothing about it at all. Neither of these was in fact the case.

“My dear boy, I’m not upset that you’ve found _love,”_ she said, “and that it’s stuck, this time.”

_“Rude.”_

“Don’t be like that,” with the slightest teasing air that sounded surprisingly like her son, “you know I’m right.”

“I suppose there might be a grain of truth in it,” he said sniffily.

“As I said, I’m not upset,” she pressed on. “I just… a part of me can’t help but think how much easier all of this would have been on us, if you’d only done what was expected of you for once.”

Jaskier laughed without humour. “That bridge has long since burnt mother. Several times over, I should think.”

“I know Julian,” she sighed. “I just can’t help but think that if you’d swallowed your pride, and your childish dreams, and done what we’d asked of you and married a nice Redanian noblewoman – “

“It’s been years mother,” Jaskier said, and Geralt could picture the exact cross look that would be on his face as he plucked aimlessly at a string, “please do not drag all of your long dead wishes for me out of their graves again.”

“Listen a moment, please,” she said, harried but insistent. “If you’d followed the path we’d laid out for you, then perhaps I would’ve _shared_ in the best years of my son’s life, instead of missing them entirely.”

“…ah.”

“Yes, ah.”

“Perhaps if you’d not tried so hard to force those things upon me,” he countered, “then I wouldn’t have needed to seek my own path to begin with.”

It struck Geralt again then, as it had done several times over the past few days to varying degrees, just how little he knew about Jaskier’s life before he’d met him. How little he’d cared.

“I know it’s too late to change that,” Jaskier’s mother said, “and foolish for me to wish for anything different, but I can’t help but think on it, now you’re here.”

“Perhaps it’s old age, making you wistful.”

 _“Julian.”_ But she was laughing.

“I’m hardly the boy I was when I left either,” he said.

“The years have been kind to you.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re looking… healthy.”

A gasp of mock outrage. “Mother, are you implying I’m getting _fat?”_

Another laugh. “Oh, of course not, don’t be so prim. I meant in general. Although you were ever so gangly when you left. You’ve filled out.”

“The road’s been kind,” he said. Which it had. Neither one of them had been short of work, and full purses meant nights at inns with good, hot food, and less traipsing back and forth over the Continent. Jaskier’s winters at court and in Oxenfurt always treated him well too. Despite himself, Geralt always noticed it. “And Geralt… takes care of me.”

Something inside him preened at the notion before he smothered it.

“Good,” she said quietly. “You’re within your rights to disbelieve me, but I am happy for you, Julian.”

“I do believe you, mother,” he said quietly, enough so that Geralt almost missed it, “thank you. It’s father that I’m not… well. You know how things were.”

“Yes,” she said with an air of defeat, “I can’t pretend he’s the happiest with how things have turned out.” Then, more warmly, “but I’m glad you came back to us in any case. Even if only for a short while.”

“I… yes.” Jaskier hesitated. “Do you know, I think I might actually be glad I did too.”

They fell quiet after that. Geralt said his goodbyes to Roach and went back inside, leaving them alone in their moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points for guessing which song came on while I was typing that last part lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah you were all right about the song because of course you were lol good job. Heads up, Jaskier’s dad is particularly dickish this chapter.

“Julian! Good evening.”

“Hello Matilde, you’re looking ravishing.”

“Lovely surprise to see you home, Julian.”

“Thank you, I can assure you, I’m equally as surprised as you are.”

“Might we pick up where we left off last time I saw you, Pankratz?”

“Tempting, but not tonight I’m afraid.”

Geralt had pointed out to him that it would put a rather gaping hole in their little charade if he was seen taking other people into his bed, and Jaskier had to – most reluctantly – admit he had a point. Shame though. Though his head was as full as it ever was with Geralt, he could have used a happy, wine-fuelled tumble to let off some steam. And there’d been more than one hopeful suggestion from guests that they might be invited to his bed later that evening. Along with one or two sour looks from those whose spouses he might have previously had in it. Those were less fun.

“Hello,” a man blocked his path, blue eyes and soft dark curls, lip bitten between his teeth and drink in hand. In other words, really quite lovely. “We haven’t met – “

“No, I rather think I’d remember if we had,” Jaskier said before he could help himself.

The young man laughed, low and pleasantly musical. “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard ever such a lot about you,” he continued, cheeks wine flushed. “I was wondering if you might permit me to…” he let his gaze unsubtly drop down the length of Jaskier’s body, and _oh sweet Melitele,_ “get to know you a little better.”

“That sounds most enticing,” Jaskier drifted a little closer despite himself, “but you might have heard, I’m… spoken for. Indefinitely.”

“Oh,” the man pouted just a touch, but still good humoured enough that Jaskier knew he hadn’t just made himself an enemy, “shame.”

Jaskier waved him off with friendly platitudes, and went in search of his brother before he could make an arse of himself.

His parents had chosen to throw an impromptu gathering at the manor. Mostly a distraction for the local nobility to keep their minds off the disappearances, though Jaskier’s coming home was provided as the official occasion. The hall was full of people he knew and people he didn’t, a fine array of food and drink to keep them merry, and even a passable group of musicians. He could only pray they didn’t leap into _Toss A Coin_ the moment they caught sight of Geralt. Who, somewhat worryingly, still hadn’t come down. He’d spent the past morning and the entire day before doing… well, Jaskier wasn’t quite sure _what,_ other than it was probably something to further the progress of the contract. It didn’t much matter if he wasn’t with him for that sort of thing anyway; chatting to the locals and searching for old maps of the town was hardly ballad worthy. He’d been assured the servants would send the witcher in when he’d gotten himself back to the manor and tidied up. Which he surely should be, by now. Bugger it, he deserved a drink.

He dropped into a seat next to Michal, “hand me that pitcher, would you?”

His brother rolled his eyes, and obligingly passed him the wine. “Do I not even get a ‘hello’ first, you blaggard.”

“Not before I’ve had a drink, no,” Jaskier winked and received a nudge to the ribs for his trouble. Which resulted in him spitting wine over the table in a rather unbecoming manner. “You _tit!”_ His brother’s laughter made up for it. Mostly.

Despite himself, he’d missed them, his sisters and brother. And worse, he hadn’t even known it until he’d seen them again, too busy with his own path to spare a thought for theirs. But he was glad enough to be in their company again now. What was more surprising was the growing warmth of his mother. After all, she’d always backed his father, when he was a boy. But after their little chat in the garden, he was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t changed her tune.

“…and the worst of it, I coveted that stupid wooden duck,” Michal was finishing up a long-forgotten anecdote from their childhood, “I wouldn’t speak to mother for a week when she gifted it to you.”

“Mm, I only wanted it because you did,” Jaskier admitted, “though I suppose none of us will be seeing it again now, since they no doubt got rid of everything after I went.”

Hanna happened to be passing, and stopped a moment to frown at him as though he were talking utter shite. “No they didn’t. It’s all upstairs still, you complete idiot,” she snatched some candied fruit from his plate, “haven’t you even bothered to look in your old rooms?”

“…No, actually.” Interesting.

She didn’t say anything more, just shook her curly head at him in despair, and whirled off to dance. But before he could dwell overlong on that particular revelation, Geralt appeared.

The witcher looked delicious enough to take a bite out of, all cleaned up and in his leathers. Not that Jaskier would ever be allowed to. He reluctantly pushed his cup aside, wary that too much drink would tempt him to take the chance, using their little ruse as an excuse. The knowledge that Geralt would probably grudgingly let him didn’t help. The witcher was scowling as he surveyed the room, most likely to hide his discomfort. Jaskier knew well enough he didn’t like parties, that he didn’t like to get involved with human squabbles, and yet here he was _again._ At Jaskier’s behest, _again._ At a party full of petty nobles and their gossip. Which alright, Jaskier did feel a teensy bit bad about. But he hadn’t asked nor wished for this gathering, and neither he or Geralt had any choice but to attend it, given the current circumstances.

Geralt eventually spotted him, eyes narrowed. He cut his way cleanly through the guests, parting before him like waves, and good grief Jaskier really would like to bite him just a little. The thickest part of his shoulder maybe, or at his thigh, given the choice. When he reached the table, Geralt looked down at him with a touch of heat behind his eyes. Enough so that it had him shifting where he sat and reaching for his cup again.

“You look well,” Geralt said, “though it seems a shame to have bothered lacing yourself into something so fine when we all know just how much you’d like to be peeled out of it again.”

And _oh,_ that had him hotter than he should be. Had he had the chance to lift the wine to his lips, he may well have choked on it. It was the perfect mix of suggestive, blunt, and good-humoured that Geralt seemed to be cultivating more frequently since they’d arrived at the manor. All pretence for his sake of course; Geralt would never say anything so obvious, so flirtatious, to him if it weren’t for their little act. Shame Jaskier’s heart, and his cock, didn’t know that.

“Might I have a word,” Geralt continued, with a glance at Jaskier’s brother, “in private?”

“Of course you may, my darling,” Jaskier beamed up at him, made a show of gripping Geralt’s thickly muscled arm to pull himself to his feet.

Michal rolled his eyes and waved them off.

Jaskier kept his smile up until they ducked behind a tapestry into an alcove, cleverly hidden away from the rest of the hall. He’d gotten rather a lot of use out of that particular hiding place in his youth. But his smile dropped ever so slightly when the curtain fell back into place behind them. Anything that Geralt wanted to discuss in privacy with such importance could hardly be good. He had the feeling this encounter wouldn’t be quite so much fun as past meetings behind the tapestry. 

“What is it?” he half whispered, unable to keep the concern from creeping into his voice. His eye was already searching for an injury, or something else out of place. Force of habit. “Geralt, what’s the matter?” He had no idea why he was whispering. Stupid, considering it was unlikely anyone could even hear them over the music and laughter and the amount of drinks they’d all knocked back.

“This is stupid,” Geralt said, voice rough but also lowered, glint of his yellow eyes sharp in the gloom.

“Well _you_ wanted to come back here to chat,” Jaskier gestured to the tapestry, “and you call me dramatic, honestly Geralt – “

“I don’t mean the – “ Geralt cut himself off with a barely restrained snarl, before his shoulders dropped a little. “I hate parties.”

The touch of guilt Jaskier had earlier felt over dragging Geralt into his parents’ social theatrics reared its head again. “I know you do,” he sighed. “I’d have gotten you out of attending, if I could.”

“Mm.”

Through the curtain, Jaskier dimly noted that the song the musicians had started on was one of his own, though thankfully not one about Geralt. “As much as you detest anything remotely fun, to complain about it can’t be the sole reason you dragged me back here like a randy fifteen-year-old.”

“I could be using this time to figure out the missing pieces as to what's behind the disappearances, that’s what,” Geralt said, frustration obvious. “What the fuck makes these people think their little party is of more importance than their neighbours being snatched from their beds?”

“I know,” Jaskier sighed, “it’s awful, but I promise you we can – “

“I could be putting a stop to it at this very moment,” Geralt whisper-growled, “but I’m stuck here instead.”

“You’re grumpy this evening,” Jaskier said. At any other time, he might have tried to soothe him, perhaps the offer of a bath, or a hug if Geralt was feeling amenable. But he felt this was not one such moment. “It can’t be helped. You know we have to jump through the hoops now and then to keep the alderman or whoever’s offering the contract happy. This is just another one of those times, I’m afraid.”

“No it fucking isn’t Jaskier,” Geralt insisted, “no other contract has had me prancing about like a fool pretending to be your… _lover.”_

Oh. “…you’ve got me there.”

“This whole act is ridiculous,” he continued. “It’s humiliating, and it would be better if we were to just put an end to it.”

Inwardly, Jaskier flinched. He knew Geralt was uncomfortable with the whole pretence, with the unnecessary frills it added to the job he had to get done, but humiliated? Surely the thought of being attached to him wasn’t quite as repulsive as that. “Alright,” he said quietly, “alright, I understand you’re frustrated with it. But surely you can see it would be even more ridiculous if we were to suddenly put an end to it now? We’ve dug ourselves too deep for that, Geralt. So stop being so grouchy and bloody get on with it.”

“Jaskier – “

“And,” Jaskier cut him off, “there is something of a bonus to be had here. Since we have this little ruse of ours in play and people think I’m off the market, a significantly fewer amount of them want to _gut_ me and put my cock on a stick for looking the wrong way at their wives. Which really makes a lot less work for you, since you don’t actively have to scare them away.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt pressed, sounding thoroughly tired of the conversation, “I really couldn’t care less.”

“I was just trying to – “

“What, piss me off even more than you already have?” he said dryly. It was without fire, just more tiredness and reluctant amusement. “Well, done you’ve succeeded.”

“Oh, stop being such an _arse,”_ he hissed in return with a half-smile and a light swat on his arm.

Before Geralt could say anything back, the tapestry was pulled aside, Liliana startling when she saw them. And oh sweet Melitele when would his sisters stop walking in on he and Geralt at the most inopportune moments? He presumed she was planning on using the hidden cut-through for a liaison of her own on the balcony without being noticed. From the look on her face, it was clear she assumed they were also up to something less than innocent.

“Having fun boys?” she asked with a smirk, confirming his suspicions. “Good grief Julian, I haven’t seen you for years and you still blush as readily I remember you as a fourteen-year-old.”

“Lili – “ he said, though really, contradicting her was pointless.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she stuck her tongue out at Jaskier and bobbed a half curtsey to Geralt, and slipped around the corner into the concealed passage.

And actually she wasn’t far wrong; their hushed argument, hidden away and in such close proximity, had gotten him a little worked up. Geralt’s nose flared with another huff of annoyance as she left, and Jaskier had to take a moment to remind himself of the task at hand.

“Geralt – “

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said gruffly before he could finish. “I didn’t intend to snap at you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I know you didn’t, my dear witcher. Perhaps we can…” he let out a long breath, “figure out a way to end the little mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, if it’s really left you so out of sorts. I know I’ve put you in a rather awkward position,” he moved closer, enough to give Geralt’s elbow a gentle squeeze “but we’ve certainly gotten ourselves out of more delicate social fiascos than this, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s only that I…” Geralt hesitated to mull the words over, as he was wont to do when it came to something particularly emotionally tricky, and Jaskier let him, used to it. “It confuses me.”

Jaskier snorted. “It confuses me too, old friend,” he said, not that Geralt could ever know just how vexing the whole affair had been for his hopeless heart. “I can only apologise again. Whether we figure a way out of the pretence or not, I know it won’t be much longer before you sort out whatever nasty thing is at fault here and we’ll be back to normal.” Perish the thought.

A screech of laugher from the hall made Jaskier startle, and much as he treasured any tender moment with Geralt he could get his greedy hands on, he’d been hidden away longer than was prudent at a party supposedly thrown in his honour.

“Shall we?” he held back the curtain.

Geralt watched him a moment before nodding tightly.

They emerged from behind the tapestry, probably more than a little ruffled looking, and Jaskier could still feel the residual heat in his face from their sort-of argument and Lili’s sudden appearance. Despite everything, he’d been almost looking forward to the evening ahead. Should have bloody known better.

“Jaskier?”

He glanced at the witcher, not quite able to read the troubled frown he was wearing. “Yes, Geralt?”

“I don’t want us to – “

“Julian.”

He turned to see his father approaching. Of course he’d spotted them sneaking guiltily out from behind the sodding curtain. Wonderful. “Father.”

“Might I have a word?” he said, smile tight and insincere, “if you’re not too busy.” He cast his eye obviously over Jaskier’s ruffled hair and pink cheeks, doublet laces loosened where he’d fiddled with them in discomfort, Geralt’s eyes brightened with what Jaskier knew was irritation, but what his father would no doubt read as something else. Geralt’s hand hovered at Jaskier’s shoulder, wordlessly asking if he’d be alright. Sweet of him, especially after the mess they’d just made of things. Jaskier knew he wouldn’t, but nodded anyway. It was the moment he’d been waiting for since they’d arrived. Geralt looked far from convinced, but let him go.

“Must you be so obvious, Julian?” his father said once they were alone, safely behind a closed door.

“We were only talking,” he said, suddenly weary, too at odds after his bout with Geralt to face any further emotional taxation. “About the contact.”

“You expect me to believe that from _you?”_ Jaskier was wondering how much his father had had to drink, and whether a lesser or greater amount would work more in his favour.

He shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

“The trouble with you Julian,” he continued, rubbing at his temple, “is that almost every salacious rumour that comes into existence about you turns out to be true.”

Ordinarily, that would have been something he might take pride in, but he sensed this wasn’t the setting to act as such. “Father – “

“I’ve spent years hearing things about you from other people, since you swanned off to make a name for yourself with tawdry songs,” he said, really working his way up into a fit now, obviously having kept the worst of his ire to himself since they’d arrived.

“Well, I didn’t think you’d appreciate a letter,” Jaskier said dryly.

“Dragging the family name through the mud,” his father continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “tarnishing it with filthy gossip, always, _always,_ making a show of yourself. Even more than you already had while you were with us.”

“I lived my life,” Jaskier said, chin tilted up to meet his father’s eye, “and I won’t apologise to you for it. Not when none of it has done you the slightest bit of harm.”

His father snorted derisively, and ignored him. “I happened to hear a piece of particularly interesting information from one of our guests a moment ago. Word has it that _you_ are the one who writes the songs about the witcher.” Ah. There it was. “We’ve all heard tell of the great White Wolf of Rivia and his loyal bard, his _songbird,_ but I never dreamed it would be you. Of all bloody people…” he shook his head, red-faced. “That’s how all this between you and he began no doubt, with you whoring yourself out as a thank you for some half decent fodder to write one of your gauche little songs about. You always were a terrible slut Julian, but I never thought you’d stoop quite so low as that.”

Jaskier stood for a moment like he’d been slapped. He’d been expecting most of what his father had just said, yes, but that didn’t make it actually coming to fruition any less of a shock. All his old grievances with his son pulled back out again and applied in new, more hurtful ways. He felt as though he’d had a bucket of cold water tossed at him. The younger him, the boy who’d taken nothing more than a change of clothes and a loaf of bread and run away from everything his father had ever wanted for him cowered. But he wasn’t that boy anymore.

“Yes I did write them,” he said, head still high, “I’m proud of it, actually. I’ve made a name for myself, and _coin_ for myself, come to think of it, which is more than I ever would have done if I’d stayed here to rot. And I’m proud of _him_ , too, and you cannot change that.”

“How dare – “

“It must rankle, to see all those years you spent hoping for me to fail wasted.”

He left then, before his father could get in another word. And to think, when he’d spoken to his mother in the garden the day before yesterday, he’d actually been _thankful_ he’d come back here. His father had ruined that to his best ability, as he should have expected. All the same, he felt a certain kind of relief at having survived the moment he’d been dreading. A little bit lighter for having said his piece. He headed back into the fray of the party, and hoped the angry flush to his face could be passed off as drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be a nice one?? I don’t know how it ended up being ‘Jaskier has two arguments and is very stressed.’ It's mostly floof from here on though.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta for the comments on the last part.  
> Who is ready for some Soft Boys???

It was morning. Just a touch after dawn, early light coming in a thick dim blue where Geralt hadn’t bothered to close the shutter or draw the curtains. He hadn’t needed to, since he’d had no intentions of sleep; had instead spent the past few hours since he’d left the gathering downstairs in meditation. In truth, he was too at odds to find sleep, and meditating at least took some degree of focus. When Jaskier let himself into the room Geralt was still sitting on the bed, but stirred and rose out of the blankness when he heard the door. Out of habit, he quickly blinked away the lingering stupor of the trance and watched Jaskier cross the room. The bard was still wearing his clothes from the night before, though his berry purple doublet was unlaced and the chemise underneath wrinkled. It was clear he hadn’t slept, and Geralt couldn’t help the twist of discontent he felt over it.

“Good morning, my dear witcher,” his voice was soft, infused with a false brightness, at odds with the poor mood Geralt could feel on him.

“Mm.”

Instead of going on through into the room Jaskier had been sleeping in since their arrival, he plopped himself down atop the bed next to Geralt. Melancholy was rolling off him in waves, the cold dank scent of sadness, though he managed a thin smile as he kicked off his boots. Geralt assumed his mood was due to the conversation he’d overheard between Jaskier and his father the night before.

“Did you enjoy the festivities?” Jaskier had somehow acquired a child’s toy, a small but skilfully painted wooden duck, and was manoeuvring it forlornly across the bedspread. “I’m sorry I abandoned you after our little chat.”

“It’s fine.”

And Geralt didn’t want to admit he’d listened in to the words Jaskier and his father had exchanged. After having witnessed the previous sour conversations between them, he’d only meant to ensure Jaskier wouldn’t come to any harm by waiting near the door; hearing what they’d said was an unavoidable consequence of his doing so. He didn’t believe Jaskier would like knowing he’d heard the things his father had said to him, and so forwent asking him what was wrong. Thinking back on it only encouraged the flickering anger he’d felt on the bard’s behalf. He’d found de Lettenhove a mild annoyance for the duration of their stay, but only now with Jaskier lacking his usual flair and being so bleak, so quiet, in his presence, did he realise it was more than the fact that he was prick – it was that he was a prick to Jaskier that bothered him. He couldn’t stop the low growl of malcontent that escaped as he thought back on the harsh words the man had dealt his son.

“Are you hungry?” Jaskier was looking at him with concern.

Geralt frowned. “What?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “That grumbling of yours.” Ah. He’d felt the rumble in Geralt’s chest and mistaken it for hunger.

“No,” he said, then when Jaskier looked unconvinced, added, “not yet.”

“Alright.”

He shelved the urge to punch Jaskier’s father in the face for the moment, since it provided no immediate benefits. Instead, he haltingly offered Jaskier comfort in the first way that came to mind. “Sit with me? While I meditate.”

“Alright,” Jaskier said again with the flicker of a smile, and set the inexplicable duck to the side. Geralt shifted to allow Jaskier the room to settle down against his side, readying himself to slip back into his meditation. He let the stillness of his body soothe the agitated bard, was comforted by the weight of him in return. He smelt of red wine and bay leaves, the cold scent of sadness lifting just a shade. It wasn’t something they did often; only if Geralt had had a particularly near miss or if Jaskier was in the midst of genuine upset. Or both. Neither happened often.

“This is nice.” He felt Jaskier’s voice in his chest.

“Mm.”

He regretted venting his frustrations to Jaskier the night before. It was fleeting irritation that he’d had to cut his work short to attend the idiotic party, and the pretence of their courting was starting to wear on him. He’d meant it when he’d told Jaskier he found it confusing. The line between the act and what he wanted was beginning to blur rather alarmingly. He had wanted to kiss him, more than just kiss him. Worst of all, it felt as though it had come out of nowhere, caught him off guard – which was no easy feat – and left him wondering just how long he’d felt that way. Logically he knew it must have been building over the years, with each shared bed and shared story, each time Jaskier’d run fingers through his wet hair, each time he’d helped him staunch a wound. But positioning himself into the foolish false romance they’d created for themselves in the past few days had given him a taste of what he might’ve had. And the longer they carried on, the less foolish it seemed.

Geralt probably could have kissed him – he’d smelt the arousal on the bard during their hushed and half-hearted disagreement behind the tapestry. Perhaps if they hadn’t been interrupted by Jaskier’s sister, he might have let himself give in to the pull of it. But then, Jaskier had been drinking, and could become aroused by something as inconsequential as a mere change in the winds, so he couldn’t rely on the smell of him for accuracy. And even if he did want to explore something of that nature with Geralt, he knew the bard well enough to know he would tire of it within a week. And he surprised himself by realising he wouldn’t be able to face it, without the promise of something more. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the tender-hearted fantasies aside and closed his eyes.

***

By the time Geralt once again eased out of his meditations, it was late morning, and Jaskier had fallen asleep. He rose from the bed, careful not to wake him, and began to empty out his pack onto the table. He wanted to check though his stocks, know all bases were covered, to make sure he would be ready to face whatever it was that was haunting Olenmarne. He was close to figuring out what it was, but not close enough. There was a steadying familiarity to the feel of each vial between his fingers, each potion and powder and salve. He couldn’t help but shoot the occasional look to the bed the make sure Jaskier was still there. He was, obviously, purple silks partially obscured by the sheets, face flush and lips parted as he breathed deeply. He was beautiful, and Geralt was beginning to despair with himself.

After a time there came a gentle knock at the door, to which Geralt called a low instruction to enter. It was the little brown and white dog, quickly followed by Jaskier’s sister Liliana, who’d stumbled across them behind the curtain last night. Though she didn’t seem as abashed by it as Geralt might have guessed.

“Of course he’s still asleep,” she tutted when she saw her brother unconscious on the bed, “I should have guessed it.” She gave Geralt half a smile. “I’m sorry to intrude, I just wanted to see how he was. He’s usually horribly hungover after these sort of things,” she paused, pressed her lips together. “Or at least he used to be, but I can only guess he hasn’t changed all that much.”

“You guess right,” Geralt said with a glance at the bed.

Liliana gave him a proper smile then, and sat with him at the table. She was dressed prettily in blue, the colour brightening her eyes and causing Geralt to realise the shade was almost identical to Jaskier’s. “You’re perfect for him you know,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, tapping a nail on one of Geralt’s vials; her hands were the same as Jaskier’s too, calluses aside, “though you might look a mismatch at first. Better than any of those great romances he used to harp on about. Better than any silly girl or vapid lordling or gods only know who else he might have thought he’d fallen in love with. The two of you, you’re… imperfectly perfect.”

Geralt only hummed at that, the inaccuracy of her words too great for him to form a response to.

“We know it was Jaskier who wrote all those songs about you,” Liliana continued undeterred, “father let it slip this morning. I can’t think why Julian didn’t mention it. I know my brother, and that feels like the sort of thing it’d only take half a heartbeat for him to start bragging about.”

Geralt didn’t have anything to say to that either. He’d assumed they already knew. He didn’t much care either way.

“It’s all very romantic, but I still can’t help but hate him,” she sighed. “That bloody song of his was in my head for days the first time I heard it.”

“I can believe it,” Geralt said. He’d been there himself.

Liliana watched him check labels for a moment in consideration, the sourness of nerves just tinging her scent. “I hope you’ll look after him,” she said quietly.

And Geralt felt an unexpected pang of guilt for all the times that he hadn’t. Not physically; he’d saved Jaskier’s skin several times over, and Jaskier’d been of help in return a handful of times in a sticky spot. But he thought of every gruff word he ever gave him, every time he ever brushed him aside, and felt… like a liar. He had to escape. Not very gallant, but he never fucking claimed to be.

“I have to go back into town,” he said gruffly, putting everything back into his pack as hastily as he could without appearing like he was rushing, “talk to the families of people who’ve disappeared again.”

She nodded, but before she could say anything, Jaskier sat up. “Must you talk so loudly?”

“It’s almost noon, you swine,” said Liliana cheerfully.

“This house has many rooms dear sister, could you perhaps go and annoy someone in one of those instead?”

“That was weak.”

“It’s early.”

“It’s _noon.”_

“Bugger off.” Jaskier was sleep rumpled and loose limbed and probably hungover, and Geralt had seen him as such a hundred times over, and yet somehow this time was… endearing. He yawned his way over to where Geralt and Liliana were sitting at the table.

“Geralt was just going into town,” Liliana said, “but I can take you down and scrounge up some late breakfast, if you like.” She looked between them expectantly.

Jaskier blinked down at him, and Geralt noticed the minute shrug Jaskier gave him before he ducked to give him a soft kiss goodbye on the cheek. He smelt of sour wine and sleep along with the familiar twist of bay leaf oil, lips dry and a trace of stubble on his chin. “See you later.”

***

Geralt felt… more at odds than ever as he rode into town. It was easily walkable, but he thought Roach would appreciate the exercise, and he appreciated her company. Even as he made his way through the short string of people who were willing to talk to him about the disappearances, it proved difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. He’d spent years rising early and leaving a sleep-warm Jaskier behind, but today was the first time he’d noticed his reluctance to do so.

“Oh yes,” said the same old woman he’d spoken to before, when she cornered him outside the bakery, “this whole run of houses is newer than the rest of the town. Only recently completed. It all started not long after everyone was settled in, if I remember right.”

“Mm. And so… what?” Geralt’s head was still disappointingly treacly, but the last thing the woman said made something click into place.

_“All newly built,”_ she said louder, as though he were hard of hearing, enough to make Geralt wince. “Word is, the bit of scrub they were built on overlapped with an old lot of hallowed ground. Though I wouldn’t go putting any stock in – “

_“What?”_

“Hallowed ground,” she shouted cheerfully at him, “honestly love, I thought you boys were meant to have good hearing.”

“Why the _fuck,”_ he said, just about managing to keep his temper in check, “did no one think to mention that?”

“It’s only an old story,” she waved, “I’m sure you know better than anyone half such things aren’t true.”

“Which means the other half are,” he said, impatient. “Where are the old town records kept? Any building plans, sale deeds, old maps of surrounding land?”

“Well normally, I’d ask at the town hall,” the old woman scratched delicately at her chin, “but there was a small fire there some weeks ago, and they shifted the lot. I heard tell they’re being stored temporarily at the de Lettenhove manor, while they set things to rights again.”

“…fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah yeah I write everyone too soft lol


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments on the last part. Once again I have disappointed myself by not getting around to answering them, but know I appreciate it <3  
> A bunch of you wanted to see Jas’ dad get punched in the face by GerBear, and who am I to deny you.

Jaskier felt considerably better after a bath. The late breakfast Lili had swindled the kitchen staff out of had probably played its part too. To begin with, he’d thought the household’s continued curiosity in regards to the long absent son of the master, returned home at long last having romanced a white haired witcher, might have improved his mood. It certainly sounded thrilling, spun like that. But as they grew bolder, their questioning only served as a reminder of the charade, and thus sat a little sourly on Jaskier’s tongue. Still, they’d been friendly enough, and keen to hear stories about his travels, which had bolstered him back to a more jovial mood by the time they left them to their work. Any chance to share a tale, he would take.

He wondered, as he climbed out of the tub, whether the kiss on the cheek he’d given Geralt before he’d left had been pushing his luck. But Lili had looked so expectant, and Geralt gazing up at him with such a remarkably soft expression, and he’d still been feeling sleepy and _fucking vulnerable alright,_ so he’d just sort of… done it. Geralt had left with impressive haste afterwards, but he supposed that was to be expected. Yawning, he pulled breeches up over his still damp legs. The colour he’d chosen was a little subdued, but then, that rather reflected his mood. The words his father had spoken last night were still swirling like a thick layer of chilly fog around the base of his thoughts; unpleasant and chilling him to the bone, but impermanent. They would dissipate in time. He’d dwelt on them long enough for his liking last night, and was determined not to give the old bastard the satisfaction of it ruining his day so thoroughly as it had ruined his night. He pushed them away. With that nastiness swept away for now, what remained at the forefront of his mind was how he’d spent the early hours of the morning curled loose and snug against Geralt’s side as he meditated. He picked up a clean chemise, recalled the familiar soap and leather and horse smell of the witcher, the solid warm weight of him, the small noise of concern he’d made when Jaskier had stumbled into their rooms, and the way he’d quietly encouraged him to lie at his side as the sun crept higher. None of it was new necessarily, but given the circumstances... Well, perhaps Geralt had been a little less frowny. Gods, but their little charade was killing him. In the most delightful manner, but the fact still remained. He wasn’t sure if he longed for or dreaded it to be done with. It would make an excellent song, but he doubted he’d ever be able to bring himself to sing it.

“Jaskier?”

“Geralt?” He tugged the chemise down over his head to see Geralt standing in the doorway, brow furrowed and eyes wide, looking a touch on edge. “You look all a twitter. What’s the matter?”

“Where would the records be kept?”

Jaskier blinked, water from his still wet hair dripping down the back of his neck, as he attempted to decipher what the bloody fuck the witcher was talking about. “I beg your pardon? I know I’m a mite slow this morning, but I seem to have missed an entire conversation somewhere, Geralt.”

Geralt tossed his head impatiently, nostrils flaring in a rather accurate imitation of Roach, and strode further into the room. “The town records. They’re being stored temporarily in this house. Where would they be?”

“Um,” Jaskier scrunched up his nose, thoroughly wrong-footed by Geralt’s sudden reappearance since dashing out after their quietly intimate start to the day, and the strange turn their conversation had apparently taken, “I don’t know. In my father’s official rooms, if anywhere.”

“Good,” Geralt nodded tightly and grabbed a handful of Jaskier’s chemise to pull him with him, “come on.”

“Good gracious,” Jaskier puffed as he stumbled after him, “you don’t have to manhandle me you know, I can manage to follow you perfectly well without.” In actuality, a little manhandling was preferable, but Geralt didn’t need to know that.

At the turn in the hall that lead towards the family bedchambers, they had the misfortune of quite literally running into Jaskier’s father. Which surprised Jaskier somewhat, as surely Geralt would have heard him approaching and taken the necessary steps to avoid him. But then, he’d seemed in a bit of a state when he’d come to fish Jaskier out of their rooms in a fit of impatience, most likely distracted by the thought of those papers he’d been ranting on about, an end to the contract and their little spot of playacting in sight.

“Julian,” his father looked equally as surprised to see them, “witcher.” He took in Geralt’s wild eyes, his hand bunched tight in the chemise hanging off Jaskier’s shoulder, his still unlaced breeches low on his hips. _Ah_. In fairness, if Jaskier had been the one to witness it, he would have drawn the same conclusion as the one he could see rapidly forming on his father’s face.

“Father,” he said with as much blind cheeriness as he could manage.

Geralt just huffed at the obstruction Jaskier’s father was causing, champing at the bit to be off again now he was on the scent. It was, even after all this time, a thrilling state to witness him in; on the hunt. Maybe that was just Jaskier.

“Have you no sense of propriety?” his father sighed. “After our little chat last night Julian, I would have thought you would have found enough sense to forgo this juvenile scampering about the halls in such a state of undress.”

“Yes yes, I’m a awful person,” Jaskier said with a flick of his wrist, Geralt’s impatience contagious, “it’s terribly vexing for you, I know. But we’re actually in the middle of something, so if you could wait until later today to admonish me father, that would be splendid.”

Unfortunately, his response only seemed to aggravate him further. “Must you provoke me at every turn?” he said, with a sad sort of desperation that suggested he thought himself the wounded party. “We might have mended things if only you could be a little more contrite. But you have no shame. None!”

Jaskier really he should have guessed what was coming. He’d noticed the infuriated look on Geralt’s face building with every second his father drew out their confrontation, his impatience to get on with his task, find those papers or whatever it was he wanted to show Jaskier. Unfortunately, his father had no experience in reading the witcher’s moods.

“You continue to disgrace us – “

The only further warning was the low snarl from Geralt before he reared back and punched Jaskier’s father on the nose.

“He’s no disgrace,” Geralt said, lip curled back, “you are.”

And it wasn’t even a proper punch by Geralt standards – Jaskier should know, he had seen it enough times – but he was still left dazed and staggering, nose bleeding a bit but nothing worse. Knowing he wasn’t gravely hurt, Jaskier felt absolutely no guilt in letting Geralt continue to haul him down the steps and leaving his father alone to clutch his nose and remaining dignity. Actually, he felt rather giddy. He swallowed down the strangled laugh attempting to climb out of his throat, and put his hand over Geralt’s wrist where it was still bunched in his clothes.

“Thank you.”

Geralt blinked at him wide eyed, like he’d forgotten he was there, but then his face hardened and he nodded. He led Jaskier below stairs and to the room his father preferred to conduct most of his business in, the very same he’d attempted to give Jaskier a dressing down in the previous evening.

“I’m afraid he always keeps it – “

Jaskier cut himself off as Geralt let go of him in favour of pulling a key seemingly from nowhere. Oh. Must have lifted it from his father during their one-sided scuffle.

“ – locked. You marvellous, sneaky little witcher.”

Geralt turned the key and let them in. Jaskier had barely given the room a glance last night, preoccupied, but now he noticed it was stacked full of wooden crates and great piles of old and new papers alike, beribboned scrolls and official looking certificates, moth eaten and gilt edges tarnished.

“What exactly – “

“Old town records,” Geralt said, stepped away from Jaskier to start digging through stacks of paper, “if I find the right one, it’ll confirm what I believe the creature causing the disappearances is, and how to get rid of the bloody thing.”

“Right,” Jaskier wrinkled his nose at the nearest dusty collection of papers. Had they held old tales or songs, he might have been a smidge more interested. He reminded himself it was for the sake of the contract, the missing people, and Geralt, that he was helping. “And what are we looking for exactly?”

“Old maps or plans of the western part of town,” Geralt grunted, shifting one of the crates aside. “Anything relating to the land where the new homes were built, where the people were all taken from.”

“Right,” he said again, already planning how best to cut this portion of the events from the song he was going to write about it. If the creature itself was interesting enough to merit it, that was. Perhaps a poem would be more suitable… He hadn’t thought he’d be able to write about this particular beast at all to begin with, given the connection to his family. But he felt he wanted to… commemorate the people it had taken, people he’d known once. He needn’t mention the rest.

They looked through the documents for what seemed like an age but what could only have been minutes, painfully aware his father could burst in and have the both of them thrown out at any moment. He cast an eye over the next paper of Gods knew how many, especially old and decrepit looking, when a small detail registered as familiar.

“Geralt?” he softly called him over, “is this it?” Geralt looked over his shoulder to where Jaskier was pointing. It was a well, sitting at a particular angle at the western edges of the old market place, close to where the new rows of houses began.

“Hm.” Thrill of the chase aside, it was difficult to concentrate on the lacklustre bit of old paper when Geralt practically had him pinned to the desk. Sure enough, there was a reasonably large area of land shaded out in grey, marked in faded ink as temple grounds. Precisely where the new houses started. There was no trace of the building itself on the maps, so it was safe to assume it must have been in ruins or gone altogether, passed from memory, by the time the order for the building of the news homes was passed.

“I knew it,” Geralt said, “they built on top of hallowed ground, the idiots, knowing the going rate for homes in such a location in town would be high.”

“Hardly a surprise.” Jaskier ran a finger along the border of the greyed out area.

“Mm,” Geralt’s hair was tickling the side of Jaskier’s face, making it rather hard to concentrate. “My guess is it’s an old curse, weakened with age, or things would be much worse. A guardian of sorts, left in place even after the temple itself was dismantled. I imagine its been taking people since the building began.”

“Accidents befalling builders while they work are commonplace,” Jaskier nodded along as the story began to take shape, “no one would have paid much mind.”

“And the people taken since are recompense for the slight dealt to the temple by people interfering with its lands,” Geralt said, frown deeper than ever. “I think I know how to get rid of it.”

Jaskier grinned at him, pleased to finally be making some progress, dragged into the thrill of the chase right alongside him. “Then lead the way, my dear witcher.”

There was a rattle as the door latch lifted, and Jaskier’s heart leapt up into his throat. _Shit._ If his father caught them breaking into his rooms shortly after Geralt bopping him on the nose, they were sure to be booted from Olenmarne - from Lettenhove entirely - before Geralt could lift the curse. He mentally raced through anything he could think of to get them out of the tight spot they were in. He’d wormed his way out of worse, surely… In the end, he landed on something that he knew for certain would distract his father from them having broken in, and play right into the thing he was truly pissed off about.

“Come here,” he hissed, didn’t let himself dither over it as he yanked Geralt into a kiss.

And _oh._ Jaskier had described kisses through poem and song more times than he could have counted; tales of longing glances and first touches, of sweet brushes of lips that held a promise, of first kisses after a long and heartbreaking wait. Kisses between captive princesses and enchanted knights, trembling maidens and honest herdsmen. A little more than chaste kisses, when it came to the bawdy fare he’d learnt in less savoury places. He’d kissed more people than stars in the sky, fallen in love during those long, sweet seconds, and each had had their own nuance. This was nothing like any of those. Physically, sure fine, a touch of the lips was a touch of the lips. But with the knowledge that it was _Geralt,_ his witcher, whom he’d longed for for so long, meant more than he could say. But he’d spend years trying to find the words, if he could. He was unable to stop the whine in his throat when they pulled apart. And Gods what he wouldn’t give to haul him in for another go, for it to be real.

A small cough came from the doorway, and Jaskier broke his gaze away from Geralt to see a maid standing in the doorway, clutching her skirts and looking embarrassed. Ah. Not his father after all. Still, a useful distraction from the fact that they were pillaging the private files in his father’s office.

“Oh,” Jaskier stepped smartly away before Geralt could be the one to pull away first, “hello.”

“Your da wants to see you sir,” she said, voice steadier than her pink cheeks might have suggested. Good girl.

“Um,” he shot a look at Geralt, who by now looked incredibly frustrated and ready to be finished with the whole thing. Bollocks. He hoped he hadn’t upset him too much with his little distraction. “Sorry. We’ve got somewhere to be. Tell him you couldn’t find us, that we’re working on the contract. He can’t argue with that.” He gave her a wink.

She cracked a smile. “As you say, sir.”

***

“Sweet Melitele, the smell of thousand year old ghostly cursed corpse clings rather,” Jaskier said as he and Geralt walked the last of the way back to the manor. It had only been a couple of hours since they’d left; dusk had fallen, and the creature banished back into the once sacred earth it had clawed itself up from every night. It wouldn’t be troubling anyone again.

“I’ve smelt worse,” Geralt said in reply. There was a long scratch across his cheek, barely bleeding anymore, that Jaskier’s fingers itched to tend to.

“Yes I know,” he said, inspecting his own grazed elbows – there was a tear right through the chemise, blast it – and falling behind, “I was _there_ for a lot of it, you know.”

All things considered, the beastie they’d found themselves up against hadn’t been all that difficult to vanquish. Once Geralt had known what the cursed creature was, he’d nabbed his silver sword and a couple of potions and powders and set off for where they knew they’d find it. To Jaskier it seemed little more than an especially vindictive pile of bones, but he’d had to re-evaluate that once it had attempted to take a chunk out of Geralt’s face. He’d tried to assist in keeping the thing distracted where he could, but it was difficult when Geralt was sexy as seven hells when he got all fighty.

They were quiet for a time, Geralt looking fixedly ahead and Jaskier humming as he dusted fragments of dead monster from his clothes. Then:

“Why did you kiss me?”

“What?” Jaskier blurted out reflexively before he gathered the skittering sparrows of his thoughts back together. “Oh. A distraction. I thought that much would have been obvious. No?”

“I see.”

Jaskier pressed on. “I um, I expected it to be my father at the door you see,” he said, “and thought we’d land ourselves in even more trouble with him by having broken into his rooms. I knew if he thought we’d snuck in there for a bit of the ol’ _you know,_ he’d be so annoyed he’d forget you nicked his key.”

“I see,” Geralt said again. “You do realise we could have just told the truth. That we needed to look at the documents to fulfil the contract.”

“Yes well,” Jaskier felt his face warm, “you’re probably right. But hang on, if that was the case, why did you steal the key instead of simply asking for it?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t be bothered, with the fuss your father was putting up.”

Jaskier snorted and shoved his shoulder. Which did exactly nothing. But Geralt was smiling, small yes, but it was there. “Still a nice kiss though,” Jaskier said, because he never did know when to cut his losses and shut his mouth, “real or not.”

He was expecting a scowl, but Geralt only hummed. He didn’t seem put out, no more than was usual, and Jaskier couldn’t help but keep a tight hold on that last, thin thread of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry about the fade to black on the monster fighting front, but it really isn’t that important and not why I wanted to write this fic. It’s also horribly unoriginal lol but here we are.


	10. Chapter 10

“Take care of my boy, witcher.”

Geralt nodded to Jaskier’s mother. “More than anything else, madam. Except for maybe my horse.”

She cracked a smile, hands clasped neatly in front of her. “That is acceptable.”

He meant it; he would make every effort to take care of Jaskier. Not only in the ways that came to him easily, like seeing them both warm and fed on the long nights on the road, but in the ways that didn’t come so easily to him too. He couldn’t have said exactly what such a thing might be until it arose, but perhaps he might attempt to give his opinion on a new song when the bard asked, or say out loud when he thought a particular colour looked well on him instead of merely thinking it. Like letting Jaskier take care of him, too.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” he heard Jaskier’s assurances to his siblings, swarmed as he was by their goodbye hugs and kisses, “I promise you. I didn’t make it so far purely on luck.” Geralt might have argued against that.

“You must write more songs,” Liliana insisted as she held his face between her hands.

Jaskier snorted. “As if you could stop me, my dear sister.”

“Yes,” Hanna joined in, beaming, “ones that when we hear them we’ll know right away that they’re _yours_ , and think of you even if your hundreds of miles away from us.”

Jaskier looked rather touched at that, and Geralt pointedly stopped himself listening in to give them a moment to themselves.

Jaskier’s father was standing off to the side, silently waiting for his family to finish saying their goodbyes. He looked about as stern as to be expected, but resigned, and nobody made any mention of his bruised eye and slightly swollen nose. The evening before, when Geralt had brought him the evidence that the contract had been fulfilled, he’d handed over the fee in full right away, with a lot less fuss and protestation than Geralt had anticipated. He’d expected de Lettenhove to attempt to wriggle his way out of paying the full fee over some fictitious reason, brought about purely because of his soured relationship with Jaskier. And if not because of that, then certainly for Geralt striking the bastard in the face for his ill manners. But to Geralt’s vague surprise, he’d made no move to cheat the witcher out of his coin.

“It’s good work that you do,” he’d said with a sigh on their return from town, nose still sluggishly bloody as he’d handed over the coin, “and we made a deal. I wouldn’t back out of that, despite any other…” he’d shot a swift, uncomfortable look to where his son waited in the doorway, “factors.”

If he noticed Geralt’s attention on him now, he chose to ignore it, and Geralt turned to face the man's wife again.

“I want you to know,” he started, surprising himself, “that he truly is the most important thing in my life.” He bit his tongue, irritated by his own sincerity, and how such tender things sounded in his rough, reluctant voice. But he found he did truly want her to know; that her delicately reformed relationship with her son wasn’t for naught, and that he’d ensure Jaskier would be kept safe and able to return to her again, if he so wished. Even if things between them didn’t lay quite as the bard’s family thought they did, in the way Geralt had come to desire.

“Oh,” she appeared equally as taken aback to hear it as he was to speak it, perhaps even a little touched by his earnestness. He fought to keep himself from grimacing.

“Only don’t tell him that,” he added gruffly, “his head’s big enough as it is.”

She laughed. “Quite.”

“Ready to set off?” Jaskier as good as bounded over, goodbyes finished with and looking aglow with excitement to be back on the road, and Geralt was for the first time decidedly pleased that he’d indirectly brought him back to his family. Apart from the one obvious exception.

“Goodbye Julian,” Jaskier’s father said stiffly as he approached them. “I – I’m glad you have some sort of security. And I’m glad you’ve found your place, even if I don’t understand it."

“I – “ Jaskier blinked, and his siblings looked just as taken aback by the almost positive comment from his father. His mother though, didn’t appear quite so surprised. “I’ll take it, I suppose,” he said, bemused. “Thank you, father.”

“Yes well,” he said, ruffled, and eyes back on the ground, “be off with you now.” He turned and stalked back inside the manor.

Jaskier snorted and took hold of Geralt’s elbow. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was for the sake of the rest of his family still watching them, or something he would have done anyway. Knowing Jaskier he suspected the latter, but he’d as good as lost the ability to tell over the past few days. “Let’s go.”

***

They were far out of Olenmarne and a little ways past Sadenburg, would be out of the Lettenhove region altogether before sundown. Though Jaskier had parted with his family on considerably better terms than he’d greeted them on, Geralt still noticed the way he loosened, arms swinging more freely and face relaxing, the further away from the manor they travelled.

It was late afternoon when Geralt swung himself down from Roach’s back so as to give her an easier time of the narrow path between the trees before they stopped to make camp. The sun slanted between the branches and hit Jaskier softly across his face and neck, made his hair reds and golds alongside the familiar brown, the soft scent of his contentment had Geralt sighing. He reminded himself of his silent promise to himself as he’d said goodbye to Jaskier’s mother.

“I’m glad you made peace with them,” he said, voice too hard for the quiet among the golden trees. “Most of them, at least.”

Jaskier’s easy step faltered in surprise, presumably at him voluntarily opening a conversation both so personal and fraught with emotional pitfalls. But he righted himself swiftly, with a soft snort and a shake of his head. “So am I. Of course, I would have everything play out again exactly as it happened for the sake of what I have now,” he shot Geralt an uncharacteristically shy smile, that made something in Geralt clench and think _should I?_ “but I must admit it is rather nice not to have that nasty shadow lingering in the back of my mind. Or lessened anyway; I fear no amount of time or touching family moments will prevent my father from being a bit of a wanker.”

“I fear you may be right.”

“Mm,” Jaskier swung his lute around to his front so he could absently pluck out a tune as they walked, something he only usually did if the conversation was one he found difficult. It didn’t happen often. “I suppose I understand them better than I did. I imagine I was a somewhat difficult child – “

“You’ve not changed much, then.”

Jaskier thumped him on the arm. “If they’d just let me be, then perhaps none of this ill feeling ever would have come about. A young man with grand dreams feeling trapped by his parents is hardly a rarity, but their insistence on forcing me into another mould soured things to what I’d believed to be beyond repair," he let out a long breath, tilted his face up to the last of the sun. "As previously stated, father’s still an absolute bastard, but I think mother understands now, at least.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, enough of that,” Jaskier said. “I expect you’re glad our little charade is over now.” He laughed weakly.

Geralt didn’t say anything, fought with what was on the edge of his tongue. He watched Jaskier a moment, tried to convince himself the hope he felt was the same he could see in Jaskier’s eyes. Silence rarely sat well with the bard though, and he continued to fill it as Geralt chewed on the words he wanted to say, gaze cast back down at his lute strings.

“I’m sorry to have put you in such a position, my friend,” he said, and Geralt realised he didn’t want to hear another apology for the few days they’d spent at the manor that had so thoroughly turned his head. Or perhaps, set it right. “But still, it was a good laugh. Might even have the makings of something jolly to play on the tavern circuit.”

“No,” Geralt said, aware he was about to cast himself into the odd, empty-bellied feeling of suspense that came when taking a risk greater and more delicate that flinging himself at monsters.

“Pardon?” Jaskier shot him that haughty little look he always got when Geralt made some comment – or refused to comment – about his work. “Well, excuse me if I continue to work on it all the same. You must have thought it at least a little amusing, Geralt, come on," he shook his head in disbelief. "I wouldn’t use our names, of course.”

“I’m not glad it’s over,” Geralt said, coming to a stop, Jaskier halting abruptly beside him and Roach giving an unimpressed snort, “I thought I would be, but – “ he shook his head. “And I don’t want it to be a charade, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked. “Err, what?”

“I don’t think it was ever a charade, do you?” he said, a touch fierce with desperation, “I believed it to be, at the start. But the line between it and reality blurred so much I realised it didn’t exist anymore.”

“Hold on,” Jaskier said, swung his lute onto his back so he could sweepingly gesture with his hands, “are you saying what I think you are? Because I mean it Geralt if you’re sodding joking then I – “

Geralt kissed him. There was a moment when Jaskier stilled completely against him, caught off guard, and Geralt wondered if he’d somehow misread everything, if he even knew the bard at all, and started to curl away. But he didn’t get far. Jaskier gave a sharp little intake of breath and flung his arms around Geralt’s neck, drawing him closer still and holding him tight in place. The kiss wasn’t quite as prettily done as it probably would be if Jaskier ever did write a verse or two about their laughable situation, but it was… lovely. Jaskier couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to force his tongue all the way to the back of Geralt’s throat, or to press small kiss after kiss to his lips, and the result was wonderfully messy series of kisses, soft and enthusiastic, lute calluses gripping the back of Geralt’s neck, bay leaves and honey.

“You don’t have any other estranged family members we should avoid do you?” Geralt said when they eventually parted, still close enough to feel Jaskier’s amused huff against his lips.

“Yes,” Jaskier ducked forward to steal one last fleeting kiss before stepping lightly back onto the path, “but none worse than the ones we’ve just left, so we should be safe enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending feels a little abrupt, but I was starting run out of steam. Thanks for sticking with me :)


End file.
